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FROM    THE   LIBRARY   OF 

REV.   LOUIS    FITZGERALD    BENSON,  D.  D. 

BEQUEATHED   BY   HIM   TO 

THE    LIBRARY   OF 

PRINCETON   THEOLOGICAL   SEMINARY 


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THE 


MAY   FLOWER 


MISCELLANEOUS    WRITINGS 


HARRIET   BEE  CHER  "STOWE, 

AUTHOR   OF   "UNCLE   TOM'S    CABIN,"    "SUNNY   MEMORIES 
OF  FOREIGN  LANDS,"   ETC. 


BOSTON : 
PHILLIPS,  SAMPSON,  AND   COMPANY, 

13    WINTER    STREET 
1855. 


Entered,  according  to  Act  of  Congress,  in  the  year  1855,  by 

PHILLIPS,  SAMPSON,  AND   COMPANY, 

In  the  Clerk's  Office  of  the  District  Court  of  the  District  of  Massachusetts. 


STEREOTYPED  AT  THE 
tOSTON    STEREOTYPE    FOUNDRY. 


INTRODUCTION 


Mr.  G.  B.  Emerson,  in  his  late  report  to  the  legisla- 
ture of  Massachusetts  on  the  trees  and  shrubs  of  that 
state,  thus  describes 

The  May  Flower. 

"  Often  from  beneath  the  edge  of  a  snow  bank  are  seen 
rising  the  fragrant,  pearly-white  or  rose-colored  flowers 
of  this  earliest  harbinger  of  spring. 

"  It  abounds  in  the  edges  of  the  woods  about  Plym- 
outh, as  elsewhere,  and  must  have  been  the  first  flower 
to  salute  the  storm-beaten  crew  of  the  Mayflower  on 
the  conclusion  of  their  first  terrible  winter.  Their  de- 
scendants have  thence  piously  derived  the  name,  although 
its  bloom  is  often  passed  before  the  coming  in  of  May.'' 

No  flower  could  be  more  appropriately  selected  as  an 
emblem  token  by  the  descendants  of  the  Puritans. 
Though  so  fragrant  and  graceful,  it  is  invariably  the 
product  of  the  hardest  and  most  rocky  soils,  and  seems 
to  draw  its  ethereal  beauty  of  color  and  wealth  of  per- 


4  INTRODUCTION. 

fume  rather  from  the  air  than  from  the  slight  hold  which 
its  rootlets  take  of  the  earth.  It  may  often  be  found  in 
fullest  beauty  matting  a  granite  ledge,  with  scarcely  any 
perceptible  soil  for  its  support. 

What  better  emblem  of  that  faith,  and  hope,  and  piety, 
by  which  our  fathers  were  supported  in  dreary  and  bar- 
ren enterprises,  and  which  drew  their  life  and  fragrance 
from  heaven  more  than  earth  ? 

The  May  Flower  was,  therefore,  many  years  since  se- 
lected by  the  author  as  the  title  of  a  series  of  New 
England  sketches.  That  work  had  comparatively  a 
limited  circulation,  and  is  now  entirely  out  of  print.  Its 
articles  are  republished  in  the  present  volume,  with  other 
miscellaneous  writings,  which  have  from  time  to  time 
appeared  in  different  periodicals.  They  have  been  writ- 
ten in  all  moods,  from  the  gayest  to  the  gravest  —  they 
are  connected,  in  many  cases,  with  the  memory  of  friends 
and  scenes  most  dear. 

There  are  those  now  scattered  through  the  world  who 
will  remember  the  social  literary  parties  of  Cincinnati, 
for  whose  genial  meetings  many  of  these  articles  were 
prepared.  With  most  affectionate  remembrances,  the 
author  dedicates  the  book  to  the  yet  surviving  members 
of 

%\t  Semicolon. 

An dover.  April,  1855. 


CONTENTS. 


-*N^r^\A/W\/W>^ 


PAGE 

UNCLE  LOT,    .  .  ....  ....      9 

LOVE  versus  LAW,  ...        43 

THE  TEA  ROSE, 89 

TRIALS  OF  A  HOUSEKEEPER, 98 

LITTLE  EDWARD, 106 

AUNT  MARY, 113 

FRANKNESS, 122 

THE  SABBATH.  — SKETCHES   FROM  A  NOTE  BOOK   OF  AN  EL- 
DERLY GENTLEMAN, 128 

LET  EVERY  MAN  MIND  HIS  OWN  BUSINESS, 158 

COUSIN  WILLIAM, 183 

THE  MINISTRATION   OF   OUR   DEPARTED    FRIENDS.  — A   NEW 

YEAR'S  REVERY, 197 

MRS.  A.  AND  MRS.  B. ;  OR,  WHAT  SHE  THINKS  ABOUT  IT,       .      204 
CHRISTMAS;  OR,  THE  GOOD  FAIRY,         .        .  .        .        .        .  212 

EARTHLY  CARE  A  HEAVENLY  DISCIPLINE,  ....      223 

CONVERSATION  ON  CONVERSATION, 232 

HOW  DO  WE  KNOW  ? ...      241 

WHICH  IS  THE  LIBERAL  MAN  ? .        .  247 

THE  ELDER'S  FEAST.  — A  TRADITION  OF  LAODICEA,  ...      264 

LITTLE  FRED,  THE  CANAL  BOY, 273 

THE  CANAL  BOAT, 293 

FEELING, 302 

THE  SEAMSTRESS, 308 

OLD  FATHER  MORRIS.  — A  SKETCH  FROM  NATURE,        .        .        .321 

(5) 


£  CONTENTS. 

TAGK 

THE  TWO  ALTARS,  OR  TWO  PICTURES  IN  ONE,      ....      330 
A  SCHOLAR'S  ADVENTURES  IN  THE  COUNTRY,         .        .        .        .348 

« WOMAN,  BEHOLD  THY  SON ! "       .  364 

THE  CORAL  RING, .        .  375 

ART  AND  NATURE, .388 

CHILDREN, 398 

HOW  TO  MAKE  FRIENDS  WITH  MAMMON, 402 

A  SCENE  IN  JERUSALEM, 412 

THE  OLD  MEETING  HOUSE.  —  SKETCH  FROM  THE  NOTE  BOOK 

OF  AN  OLD  GENTLEMAN, 420 

THE  NEW-YEAR'S  GIFT, ....      429 

THE  OLD  OAK  OF  ANDOVER.  —  A  EEVERY, 443 

OUR  WOOD  LOT  IN  WINTER,     .        .  ...  .449 

POEMS :  — 

THE  CHARMER, .  ...  455 

PILGRIM'S  SONG  IN  THE  DESERT,  .  458 

MARY  AT  THE  CROSS,        ....  460 

CHRISTIAN  PEACE,  .  ...  404 

ABIDE  IN  ME  AND  I  IN  YOU.  — THE  SOUL'S  ANSWER,     .        .  466 
WHEN  I  AWAKE  I  AM  STILL  WITH  THEE,  468 

CHRIST'S  VOICE  IN  THE  SOUL,     ...  .  .  470 


THE    MAY    FLOWER 


(7) 


UNCLE    LOT. 


And  so  I  am  to  write  a  story  —  but  of  what,  and  where  ? 
Shall  it  be  radiant  with  the  sky  of  Italy  ?  or  eloquent  with  the 
beau  ideal  of  Greece  ?  Shall  it  breathe  odor  and  languor  from 
the  orient,  or  chivalry  from  the  Occident?  or  gayety  from 
France  ?  or  vigor  from  England  ?  No,  no  ;  these  are  all  too 
old  —  too  romance-like  —  too  obviously  picturesque  for  me. 
No  ;  let  me  turn  to  my  own  land —  my  own  New  England  ; 
the  land  of  bright  fires  and  strong  hearts ;  the  land  of  deeds, 
and  not  of  words ;  the  land  of  fruits,  and  not  of  flowers  ;  the 
land  often  spoken  against,  yet  always  respected ;  "  the  latchet 
of  whose  shoes  the  nations  of  the  earth  are  not  worthy  to 
unloose." 

Now,  from  this  very  heroic  apostrophe,  you  may  suppose 
that  I  have  something  very  heroic  to  tell.  By  no  means.  It 
is  merely  a  little  introductory  breeze  of  patriotism,  such  as 
occasionally  brushes  over  every  mind,  bearing  on  its  wings 
the  remembrance  of  all  we  ever  loved  or  cherished  in  the 
land  of  our  early  years;  and  if  it  should  seem  to  be  rodo- 
montade to  any  people  in  other  parts  of  the  earth,  let  them 
only  imagine  it  to  be  said  about  "  Old  Kentuck,"  old  England, 


10  UNCLE    LOT. 

or  any  other  comer  of  the  world  in  which  they  happened  to 
be  born,  and  they  will  iind  it  quite  rational. 

But,  as  touching  our  story,  it  is  time  to  begin.  Did  you 
ever  see  the  little  village  of  Newbury,  in  New  England  ?  I 
dare  say  you  never  did ;  for  it  was  just  one  of  those  out  of 
the  way  places  where  nobody  ever  came  unless  they  came  on 
purpose :  a  green  little  hollow,  wedged  like  a  bird's  nest  be- 
tween half  a  dozen  high  hills,  that  kept  off  the  wind  and  kept 
out  foreigners ;  so  that  the  little  place  was  as  straitly  sui 
generis  as  if  there  were  not  another  in  the  world.  The 
inhabitants  were  all  of  that  respectable  old  standfast  family 
who  make  it  a  point  to  be  born,  bred,  married,  die,  and  be 
buried  all  in  the  selfsame  spot.  There  were  just  so  many 
houses,  and  just  so  many  people  lived  in  them;  and  nobody 
ever  seemed  to  be  sick,  or  to  die  either,  at  least  while  I  was 
there.  The  natives  grew  old  till  they  could  not  grow  any 
older,  and  then  they  stood  still,  and  lasted  from  generation  to 
generation.  There  was,  too,  an  unchangeability  about  all  the 
externals  of  Newbury.  Here  was  a  red  house,  and  there  was 
a  brown  house,  and  across  the  way  was  a  yellow  house  ;  and 
there  was  a  straggling  rail  fence  or  a  tribe  of  mullein  stalks 
between.  The  minister  lived  here,  and  'Squire  Moses  lived 
there,  and  Deacon  Hart  lived  under  the  lull,  and  Messrs.  Na- 
dab  and  Abihu  Peters  lived  by  the  cross  road,  and  the  old 
"  widder  "  Smith  lived  by  the  meeting  house,  and  Ebenezer 
Camp  kept  a  shoemaker's  shop  on  one  side,  and  Patience 
Mosely  kept  a  milliner's  shop  in  front;  and  there  was  old 
Comfort  Scran,  who  kept  store  for  the  whole  town,  and  sold 
axe  heads,  brass  thimbles,  licorice  ball,  fancy  handkerchiefs, 
and  every  thing  else  you  can  think  of.     Here,  too,  was  the 


UNCLE    LOT.  11 

general  post  office,  where  you  might  see  letters  marvellously 
folded,  directed  wrong  side  upward,  stamped  with  a  thimble, 
and  superscribed  to  some  of  the  Dollys,  or  Pollys,  or  Peters^ 
or  Moseses  aforenamed  or  not  named. 

For  the  rest,  as  to  manners,  morals,  arts,  and  sciences,  the 
people  in  Newbury  always  went  to  their  parties  at  three 
o'clock  in  the  afternoon,  and  came  home  before  dark ;  always 
stopped  all  work  the  minute  the  sun  was  down  on  Saturday 
night ;  always  went  to  meeting  on  Sunday ;  had  a  school  house 
with  all  the  ordinary  inconveniences ;  were  in  neighborly  char- 
ity with  each  other  ;  read  their  Bibles,  feared  their  God,  and 
were  content  with  such  things  as  they  had  —  the  best  philoso- 
phy, after  all.  Such  was  the  place  into  which  Master  James 
Benton  made  an  irruption  in  the  year  eighteen  hundred  and 
no  matter  what.  Now,  this  James  is  to  be  our  hero,  and  he 
is  just  the  hero  for  a  sensation  —  at  least,  so  you  would  have 
thought,  if  you  had  been  in  Newbury  the  week  after  his  arri- 
val. Master  James  was  one  of  those  whole-hearted,  energetic 
Yankees,  who  rise  in  the  world  as  naturally  as  cork  does  in 
water.  He  possessed  a  great  share  of  that  characteristic  na- 
tional trajt  so  happily  denominated  "  cuteness,"  which  signifies 
an  ability  to  do  every  thing  without  trying,  and  to  know  every 
thing  without  learning,  and  to  make  more  use  of  one's  igno- 
rance than  other  people  do  of  their  knowledge.  This  quality 
in  James  was  mingled  with  an  elasticity  of  animal  spirits,  a 
buoyant  cheerfulness  of  mind,  which,  though  found  in  the 
New  England  character,  perhaps,  as  often  as  any  where  else, 
is  not  ordinarily  regarded  as  one  of  its  distinguishing  traits. 

As  to  the  personal  appearance  of  our  hero,  we  have  not 
much  to  say  of  it  —  not  half  so  much  as  the  girls  in  Newbury 
fjund  it  necessary  to  remark,  the  first  Sabbath  that  he  shone 


12  UNCLE    LOT. 

out  in  the  meeting  house.  There  was  a  saucy  frankness  of 
countenance,  a  knowing  roguery  of  eye,  a  joviality  and  prank- 
ishness  of  demeanor,  that  was  wonderfully  captivating,  espe- 
cially to  the  ladies. 

It  is  true  that  Master  James  had  an  uncommonly  comforta- 
ble opinion  of  himself,  a  full  faith  that  there  was  nothing  in 
creation  that  he'  could  not  learn  and  could  not  do ;  and  this 
faith  was  maintained  with  an  abounding  and  triumphant  joy- 
fulness,  that  fairly  carried  your  sympathies  along  with  him, 
and  made  you  feel  quite  as  much  delighted  with  his  qualifica- 
tions and  prospects  as  he  felt  himself.  There  are  two  kinds 
of  self-sufficiency ;  one  is  amusing,  and  the  other  is  provoking. 
His  was  the  amusing  kind.  It  seemed,  in  truth,  to  be  only 
the  buoyancy  and  overflow  of  a  vivacious  mind,  delighted 
with  every  thing  delightful,  in  himself  or  others.  He  was 
always  ready  to  magnify  his  own  praise,  but  quite  as  ready 
to  exalt  his  neighbor,  if  the  channel  of  discourse  ran  that 
way :  his  own  perfections  being  more  completely  within 
his  knowledge,  he  rejoiced  in  them  more  constantly ;  but,  if 
those  of  any  one  else  came  within  the  same  range,  he  was 
quite  as  much  astonished  and  edified  as  if  they  had^been  his 
own. 

Master  James,  at  the  time  of  his  transit  to  the  town  of 
Newbury,  was  only  eighteen  years  of  age;  so  that  it  was 
difficult  to  say  which  predominated  in  him  most,  the  boy  or 
the  man.  The  belief  that  he  could,  and  the  determination 
that  he  would,  be  something  in  the  world  had  caused  him  to 
abandon  his  home,  and,  with  all  his  worldly  effects  tied  in  a 
blue  cotton  pocket  handkerchief,  to  proceed  to  see^:  his  fortune 
in  Newbury.  And  never  did  stranger  in  Yankee  village  rise 
to   promotion  with   more   unparalleled    rapidity,  or  boast  a 


UNCLE    LOT.  13 

greater  plurality  of  employment,     He  figured  as  schoolmaster 

all  the  week,  and  as  chorister  on  Sundays,  and  taught  singing 
and  reading  in  the  evenings,  besides  studying  Latin  and  Greek 
with  the  minister,  nobody  knew  when  ;  thus  fitting  for  college, 
while  he  seemed  to  be  doing  every  thing  else  in  the  world 
besides. 

James  understood  every  art  and  craft  of  popularity,  and 
made  himself  mightily  at  home  in  all  the  chimney  corners  of 
the  region  round  about ;  knew  the  geography  of  every  body's 
cider  barrel  and  apple  bin,  helping  himself  and  every  one  else 
therefrom  with  all  bountifulness  ;  rejoicing  in  the  good  things 
of  this  life,  devouring  the  old  ladies'  doughnuts  and  pumpkin 
pies  with  most  flattering  appetite,  and  appearing  equally  to 
relish  every  body  and  thing  that  came  in  his  way. 

The  degree  and  versatility  of  his  acquirements  were  truly 
wonderful.  He  knew  all  about  arithmetic  and  history,  and 
all  about  catching  squirrels  and  planting  corn  ;  made  poetry 
and  hoe  handles  with  equal  celerity  ;  wound  yarn  and  took 
out  grease  spots  for  old  ladies,  and  made  nosegays  and  knick- 
knacks  for  young  ones  ;  caught  trout  Saturday  afternoons,  and 
discussed  doctrines  on  Sundays,  with  equal  adroitness  and 
effect.     In  short,  Mr.  James  moved  on  through  the  place 

"  Victorious, 
Happy  and  glorious," 

welcomed  and  privileged  by  every  body  in  every  place  ;  and 
when  he  had  told  his  last  ghost  story,  and  fairly  flourished 
himself  out  of  doors  at  the  close  of  a  long  winter's  evening, 
vou  might  see  the  hard  face  of  the  good  man  of  the  house 
still  phosphorescent  with  his  departing  radiance,  and  hear  him 
'aim,  in  a  paroxysm  of  admiration,  that  "  Jemeses  talk 
2 


14  UNCLE    LOT. 

re'ely  did  beat  all ;  that  he  was  sartainly  most  a  miraculous 
cre'tur !  " 

It  was  wonderfully  contrary  to  the  buoyant  activity  of  Mas- 
ter James's  mind  to  keep  a  school.  He  had,  moreover,  so 
much  of  the  boy  and  the  rogue  in  his  composition,  that  he 
could  not  be  strict  with  the  iniquities  of  the  curly  pates  under 
his  charge  ;  and  when  he  saw  how  determinately  every  little 
heart  was  boiling  over  with  mischief  and  motion,  he  felt  in 
his  soul  more  disposed  to  join  in  and  help  them  to  a  frolic 
than  to  lay  justice  to  the  line,  as  was  meet.  This  would  have 
made  a  sad  case,  had  it  not  been  that  the  activity  of  the  mas- 
ter's mind  communicated  itself  to  his  charge,  just  as  the  reac- 
tion of  one  brisk  little  spring  will  fill  a  manufactory  with 
motion  ;  so  that  there  was  more  of  an  impulse  towards  study 
in  the  golden,  good-natured  day  of  James  Benton  than  in  the 
time  of  all  that  went  before  or  came  after  him. 

feut  when  "  school  was  out,"  James's  spirits  foamed  over  as 
naturally  as  a  tumbler  of  soda  water,  and  lie  could  jump  over 
benches  and  burst  out  of  doors  with  as  much  rapture  as  the 
veriest  little  elf  in  his  company.  Then  you  might  have  seen 
him  stepping  homeward  with  a  most  felicitous  expression  of 
countenance,  occasionally  reaching  his  hand  through  the  fence 
for  a  bunch  of  currants,  or  over  it  after  a  flower,  or  bursting 
into  some  back  yard  to  help  an  old  lady  empty  her  wash  tub, 
or  stopping  to  pay  his  devoirs  to  Aunt  This  or  Mistress  That, 
for  James  well  knew  the  importance  of  the  "  powers  that  be," 
and  always  kept  the  sunny  side  of  the  old  ladies. 

We  shall  not  answer  for  James's  general  flirtations,  which 
were  sundry  and  manifold  ;  for  he  had  just  the  kindly  heart 
that  fell  in  love  with  every  thing  in  feminine  shape  that  came 
in  his    way,  and    if  he   had  not  been  blessed  with  an  equal 


UNCLE    LOT.  15 

facility  in  falling  out  again,  we  do  not  know  what  ever  would 
have  become  of  him.  But  at  length  he  came  into  an  abiding 
captivity,  and  it  is  quite  time  that  he  should  ;  for,  having  de- 
voted thus  much  space  to  the  illustration  of  our  hero,  it  is  fit 
we  should  do  something  in  behalf  of  our  heroine  ;  and,  there- 
fore, we  must  beg  the  reader's  attention  while  we  draw  a 
diagram  or  two  that  will  assist  him  in  gaining  a  right  idea 
of  her. 

Do  you  see  yonder  brown  house,  with  its  broad  roof  sloping 
almost  to  the  ground  on  one  side,  and  a  great,  unsupported, 
sun  bonnet  of  a  piazza  shooting  out  over  the  front  door? 
You  must  often  have  noticed  if  ;  you  have  seen  its  tall  well 
sweep,  relieved  against  the  clear  evening  sky,  or  observed  the 
feather  beds  and  bolsters  lounging  out  of  its  chamber  windows 
on  a  still  summer  morning  ;  you  recollect  its  gate,  that  swung 
with  a  chain  and  a  great  stone  ;  its  pantry  window,  latticed 
witli  little  brown  slabs,  and  looking  out  upon  a  forest  of  bean 
poles.  You  remember  the  zephyrs  that  used  to  play  among 
its  pea  brush,  and  shake  the  long  tassels  of  its  corn  patch,  and 
how  vainly  any  zephyr  might  essay  to  perform  similar  flirta- 
tions with  the  considerate  cabbages  that  were  solemnly  vege- 
tating near  by.  Then  there  was  the  whole  neighborhood  of 
purple-leaved  beets  and  feathery  parsnips  ;  there  were  the 
billows  of  gooseberry  bushes  rolled  up  by  the  fence,  inter- 
spersed with  rows  of  quince  trees  ;  and  far  off  in  one  corner 
was  one  little  patch,  penuriously  devoted  to  ornament,  which 
flamed  with  marigolds,  poppies,  snappers,  and  four-o'clocks. 
Then  there  was  a  little  box  by  itself  with  one  rose  geranium 
in  it,  which  seemed  to  look  around  the  garden  as  much  like  a 
stranger  as  a  French  dancing  master  in  a  Yankee  meeting 
house. 


16  UNCLE    LOT. 

That  is  the  dwelling  of  Uncle  Lot  Griswold.  Uncle  Lot, 
as  he  was  commonly  called,  had  a  character  that  a  painter 
would  sketch  for  its  lights  and  contrasts  rather  than  its  sym- 
metry. He  was  a  chestnut  burr,  abounding  with  briers  with- 
out and  with  substantial  goodness  within.  He  had  the  strong- 
grained  practical  sense,  the  calculating  worldly  wisdom  of  his 
of  people  in  New  England  ;  he  had,  too,  a  kindly  heart ; 
but  all  the  strata  of  his  character  were  crossed  by  a  vein  of 
surly  petulance,  that,  half  way  between  joke  and  earnest,  col- 
ored every  thing  that  he  said  and  did. 

If  you  asked  a  favor  of  Uncle  Lot,  he  generally  kept  you 
arguing  half  an  hour,  to  prove  that  you  really  needed  it,  and 
to  tell  you  that  he  could  not  all  the  while  be  troubled  with 
helping  one  body  or  another,  all  which  time  you  might  observe 
him  regularly  making  his  preparations  to  grant  your  request, 
and  see,  by  an  odd  glimmer  of  his  eye,  that  he  was  preparing 
to  let  you  hear  the  "  conclusion  of  the  whole  matter,"  which 
was,  "  Well,  well  —  I  guess  — I'll  go,  on  the  hull  — I  'spose 
I  must,  at  least ; "  so  off*  he  would  go  and  work  while  the  day 
lasted,  and  then  wind  up  with  a  farewell  exhortation  "  not  to 
be  a  callin'  on  your  neighbors  when  you  could  get  along  with- 
out." If  any  of  Uncle  Lot's  neighbors  were  in  any  trouble, 
he  was  always  at  hand  to  tell  them  that  "  they  shouldn't  a' 
done  so  ;  "  that  "  it  was  strange  they  couldn't  had  more  sense  ;  " 
and  then  to  close  his  exhortations  by  laboring  more  diligently 
than  any  to  bring  them  out  of  their  difficulties,  groaning  in 
spirit,  meanwhile,  that  folks  would  make  people  so  much 
trouble. 

"  Uncle  Lot,  father  wants  to  know  if  you  will  lend  him 
your  hoe  to-day,"  says  a  little  boy,  making  his  way  across 
a  cornfield. 


UNCLE    LOT.  17 

"  Why  don't  your  father  use  his  own  hoe  ?  " 

"  Ours  is  broke." 

"  Broke  !     How  came  it  broke  ?  " 

"  I  broke  it  yesterday,  trying  to  hit  a  squirrel." 

"  What  business  had  you  to  be  hittin'  squirrels  with  a  hoe  ? 
say ! " 

"  But  father  wants  to  borrow  yours." 

"  Why  don't  you  have  that  mended  ?  It's  a  great  pester  to 
have  every  body  usin'  a  body's  things." 

"  Well,  I  can  borrow  one  some  where  else,  I  suppose," 
says  the  suppliant.  After  the  boy  has  stumbled  across  the 
ploughed  ground,  and  is  fairly  over  the  fence,  Uncle  Lot 
calls,  — 

"  Halloo,  there,  you  little  rascal !  what  are  you  goin'  off 
without  the  hoe  for  ?  " 

"  I  didn't  know  as  you  meant  to  lend  it." 

"  I  didn't  say  I  wouldn't,  did  I  ?  Here,  come  and  take  it  — 
stay,  I'll  bring  it ;  and  do  tell  your  father  not  to  be  a  lettin' 
you  hunt  squirrels  with  his  hoes  next  time." 

Uncle  Lot's  household  consisted  of  Aunt  Sally,  his  wife,  and 
an  only  son  and  daughter ;  the  former,  at  the  time  our  story 
begins,  was  at  a  neighboring  literary  institution.  Aunt  Sally 
was  precisely  as  clever,  as  easy  to  be  entreated,  and  kindly  in 
externals,  as  her  helpmate  was  the  reverse.  She  was  one  of 
those  respectable,  pleasant  old  ladies  whom  you  might  often 
have  met  on  the  way  to  church  on  a  Sunday,  equipped  witli  a 
great  fan  and  a  psalm  book,  and  carrying  some  dried  orange 
peel  or  a  stalk  of  fennel,  to  give  to  the  children  if  they  were 
sleepy  in  meeting.  She  was  as  cheerful  and  domestic  as  the 
tea  kettle  that  sung  by  her  kitchen  fire,  and  slipped  along 
among  Uncle  Lot's  angles  and  peculiarities  as  if  there  never 
2* 


IS 


UNCLE    LOT. 


was  any  thing  the  matter  in  the  world ;  and  the  same  mantle 
of  sunshine  seemed  to  have  fallen  on  Miss  Grace,  her  only 
daughter. 

Pretty  in  her  person  and  pleasant  in  her  ways,  endowed 
with  native  self-possession  and  address,  lively  and  chatty, 
having  a  mind  and  a  will  of  her  own,  yet  good-humored 
withal,  Miss  Grace  was  a  universal  favorite.  It  would  have 
puzzled  a  city  lady  to  understand  how  Grace,  who  never  was 
out  of  Newbury  in  her  life,  knew  the  way  to  speak,  and  act, 
and  behave,  on  all  occasions,  exactly  as  if  she  had  been 
taught  how.  She  was  just  one  of  those  wild  flowers  which 
you  may  sometimes  see  waving  its  little  head  in  the  woods, 
and  looking  so  civilized  and  garden-like,  that  you  wonder  if  it 
really  did  come  up  and  grow  there  by  nature.  She  was  an 
adept  in  all  household  concerns,  and  there  was  something 
amazingly  pretty  in  her  energetic  way  of  bustling  about,  and 
"  putting  things  to  rights."  Like  most  Yankee  damsels,  she 
had  a  longing  after  the  tree  of  knowledge,  and,  having  ex- 
hausted the  literary  fountains  of  a  district  school,  she  fell  to 
reading  whatsoever  came  in  her  way.  True,  she  had  but  little 
to  read ;  but  what  she  perused  she  had  her  own  thoughts 
upon,  so  that  a  person  of  information,  in  talking  with  her, 
would  feel  a  constant  wondering  pleasure  to  find  that  she  had 
so  much  more  to  say  of  this,  that,  and  the  other  thing  than  he 
expected. 

Uncle  Lot,  like  every  one  else,  felt  the  magical  brightness 
of  his  daughter,  and  was  delighted  with  her  praises,  as  might 
be  discerned  by  his  often  finding  occasion  to  remark  that  "  lie 
didn't  see  why  th.e  boys  need  to  be  all  the  time  a'  comin'  to 
see  Grace,  for  she  was  nothing  so  extror'nary,  after  all." 
About  all  matters  and  things  at  home  she  generally  had  her 


UNCLE    LOT.  10 

own  way,  while  Uncle  Lot  would  scold  and  give  up  with  a 
regular  good  grace  that  was  quite  creditable. 

"  Father,"  says  Grace,  "  I  wTant  to  have  a  party  next  week." 

"  You  sha'n't  gro  to  havin'  your  parties,  Grace.  I  always 
have  to  eat  bits  and  ends  a  fortnight  after  you  have  one,  and 
I  won't  have  it  so."  And  so  Uncle  Lot  walked  out,  and  Aunt 
Sally  and  Miss  Grace  proceeded  to  make  the  cake  and  pies 
for  the  party. 

When  Uncle  Lot  came  home,  he  saw  a  long  array  of  pies 
and  rows  of  cakes  on  the  kitchen  table. 

"  Grace  —  Grace  —  Grace,  I  say !  What  is  all  this  here 
flummery  for  ?  " 

"  Why,  it  is  to  eat,  father,"  said  Grace,  with  a  good-natured 
look  of  consciousness. 

Uncle  Lot  tried  his  best  to  look  sour  ;  but  his  visage  began 
to  wax  comical  as  he  looked  at  his  merry  daughter ;  so  he  said 
nothing,  but  quietly  sat  down  to  his  dinner. 

"  Father,"  said  Grace,  after  dinner,  "  we  shall  want  two 
more  candlesticks  next  week." 

"  Why,  can't  you  have  your  party  with  what  you've  got  ?  " 

"  No,  father,  we  want  two  more." 

"  I  can't  afford  it,  Grace  —  there's  no  sort  of  use  on't  — 
and  you  sha'n't  have  any." 

"  O,  father,  now  do,"  said  Grace. 

"  I  won't,  neither,"  said  Uncle  Lot,  as  he  sallied  out  of  the 
house,  and  took  the  road  to  Comfort  Scran's  store. 

In  half  an  hour  he  returned  again ;  and  fumbling  in  his 
pocket,  and  drawing  forth  a  candlestick,  levelled  it  at  Grace. 

"  There's  your  candlestick." 

"  But,  father,  I  said  I  wanted  two" 

"  Why,  can't  you  make  one  do  ?  " 


20 


UNCLE    LOT. 


"  No,  I  can't ;  I  must  have  two." 

"  Well,  then,  there's  t'other  ;  and  here's  a  fol-de-rol  for  you 
to  tie  round  your  neck."  So  saying,  he  bolted  for  the  door, 
and  took  himself  off  with  all  speed.  It  was  much  after  this 
fashion  that  matters  commonly  went  on  in  the  brown  house. 

But  having  tarried  long  on  the  way,  we  must  proceed  with 
the  main  story. 

James  thought  Miss  Grace  was  a  glorious  girl ;  and  as  to 
what  Miss  Grace  thought  of  Master  James,  perhaps  it  would 
not  have  been  developed  had  she  not  been  called  to  stand  on 
the  defensive  for  him  with  Uncle  Lot.  For,  from  the  time 
that  the  whole  village  of  Newbury  began  to  be  wholly  given 
unto  the  praise  of  Master  James,  Uncle  Lot  set  his  face  as  a 
flint  against  him  —  from  the  laudable  fear  of  following  the 
multitude.  He  therefore  made  conscience  of  stoutly  gainsay- 
ing every  thing  that  was  said  in  his  behalf,  which,  as  James 
was  in  high  favor  with  Aunt  Sally,  he  had  frequent  opportu- 
nities to  do. 

So  when  Miss  Grace  perceived  that  Uncle  Lot  did  not  like 
our  hero  as  much  as  he  ought  to  do,  she,  of  course,  was  bound 
to  like  him  well  enough  to  make  up  for  it.  Certain  it  is  that 
they  were  remarkably  happy  in  finding  opportunities  of  being 
acquainted ;  that  James  waited  on  her,  as  a  matter  of  course, 
from  singing  school ;  that  lie  volunteered  making  a  new  box 
for  her  geranium  on  an  improved  plan  ;  and  above  all,  that  he 
was  remarkably  particular  in  his  attentions  to  Aunt  Sally  — 
a  stroke  of  policy  which  showed  that  James  had  a  natural 
genius  for  this  sort  of  matters.  Even  when  emerging  from 
the  meeting  house  in  full  glory,  with  flute  and  psalm  book 
under  his  arm,  he  would  stop  to  ask  her  how  she  did ;  and  if 
it  was  cold  weather,  he  would  carry  her  foot  stove  all  the  way 


UNCLE    LOT.  21 

home  from  meeting,  discoursing  upon  the  sermon,  and  other 
serious  matters,  as  Aunt  Sally  observed,  "  in  the  pleasantest, 
prettiest  way  that  ever  ye  see."  This  flute  "was  one  of  the 
crying  sins  of  James  in  the  eyes  of  Uncle  Lot.  James  was 
particularly  fond  of  it,  because  he  had  learned  to  play  on  it 
by  intuition  ;  and  on  the  decease  of  the  old  pitchpipe,  -which 
was  slain  by  a  fall  from  the  gallery,  he  took  the  liberty  to  in- 
troduce the  flute  in  its  place.  For  this,  and  other  sins,  and 
for  the  good  reasons  above  named,  Uncle  Lot's  countenance 
was  not  towards  James,  neither  could  he  be  moved  to  him-ward 
by  any  manner  of  means. 

To  all  Aunt  Sally's  good  words  and  kind  speeches,  he  had 
only  to  say  that  "  he  didn't  like  him ;  that  he  hated  to  see 
him  a'  manifesting  and  glorifying  there  in  the  front  gallery 
Sundays,  and  a'  acting  every  where  as  if  he  was  master  of 
all :  he  didn't  like  it,  and  he  wouldn't."  But  our  hero  was  no 
whit  cast  down  or  discomfited  by  the  malcontent  aspect  of 
Uncle  Lot.  On  the  contrary,  when  report  was  made  to  him 
of  divers  of  his  hard  speeches,  he  only  shrugged  his  shoulders, 
with  a  very  satisfied  air,  and  remarked  that  "  he  knew  a  thing 
or  two  for  all  that." 

"  Why,  James,"  said  his  companion  and  chief  counsellor, 
"  do  you  think  Grace  likes  you  ?  " 

"  I  don't  know,"  said  our  hero,  with  a  comfortable  appear- 
ance of  certainty. 

"  But  you  can't  get  her,  James,  if  Uncle  Lot  is  cross 
about  it." 

"  Fudge  !  I  can  make  Uncle  Lot  like  me  if  I  have  a  mind 
to  try." 

"  Well  then,  Jim,  you'll  have  to  give  up  that  flute  of  yours, 
I  tell  you  now." 


22  UNCLE    LOT. 

"  Fa,  sol,  la  —  I  can  make  him  like  me  and  my  flute  too." 

'•  Why,  how  will  you  do  it  ?  " 

"  0,  I'll  work  it,"  said  our  hero. 

"  Well,  Jim,  I  tell  you  .nowj  you  don't  know  Uncle  Lot  if 
you  say  so ;  for  he  is  just  the  settest  crittur  in  his  way  that 
ever  you  saw." 

"  I  do  know  Uncle  Lot,  though,  better  than  most  folks  ;  he 
is  no  more  cross  than  I  am ;  and  as  to  his  being  set,  you  have 
nothing  to  do  but  make  him  think  he  is  in  his  own  way  when 
he  is  in  yours  —  that  is  all." 

"  Well,"  said  the  other,  "  but  you  see  I  don't  believe  it." 

"And  I'll  bet  you  a  gray  squirrel  that  I'll  go  there  this 
very  evening,  and  get  him  to  like  me  and  my  flute  both,"  said 
James. 

Accordingly  the  late  sunshine  of  that  afternoon  shone  full 
on  the  yellow  buttons  of  James  as  he  proceeded  to  the  place 
of  conflict.  It  was  a  bright,  beautiful  evening.  A  thunder 
storm  had  just  cleared  away,  and  the  silver  clouds  lay  rolled 
up  in  masses  around  the  setting  sun ;  the  rain  drops  were 
sparkling  and  winking  to  each  other  over  the  ends  of  the 
leaves,  and  all  the  bluebirds  and  robins,  breaking  forth  into 
song,  made  the  little  green  valley  as  merry  as  a  musical  box. 

James's  soul  was  always  overflowing  with  that  kind  of  po- 
etry which  consists  in  feeling  unspeakably  happy ;  and  it  is 
not  to  be  wondered  at,  considering  where  he  was  going,  that 
he  should  feel  in  a  double  ecstasy  on  the  present  occasion. 
He  stepped  gayly  along,  occasionally  springing  over  a  fence 
to  the  right  to  see  whether  the  rain  had  swollen  the  trout 
brook,  or  to  the  left  to  notice  the  ripening  of  Mr.  Somebody's 
watermelons  —  for  James  always  had  an  eye  on  all  his  neigh- 
bors' matters  as  well  as  his  own. 


UNCLE    LOT.  23 

Iii  this  way  he  proceeded  till  he  arrived  at  the  picket  fence 
that  marked  the  commencement  of  Uncle  Lot's  ground.  Here 
he  stopped  to  consider.  Just  then  four  or  five  sheep  walked 
up,  and  hegan  also  to  consider  a  loose  picket,  which  was  hang- 
ing just  ready  to  drop  off;  and  James  began  to  look  at  the 
sheep.  "  Well,  mister,"  said  he,  as  he  observed  the  leader 
judiciously  drawing  himself  through  the  gap,  "in  with  you  — 
just  what  I  wanted;"  and  having  waited  a  moment  to  ascer- 
tain that  all  the  company  were  likely  to  follow,  he  ran  with 
all  haste  towards  the  house,  and  swinging  open  the  gate, 
pressed  all  breathless  to  the  door. 

"  Uncle  Lot,  there  are  four  or  live  sheep  in  your  garden ! " 
Uncle  Lot  dropped  his  whetstone  and  scythe. 

"  I'll  drive  them  out,"  said  our  hero  ;  and  with  that,  he  ran 
down  the  garden  alley,  and  made  a  furious  descent  on  the  en- 
emy ;  bestirring  himself,  as  Bunyan  says,  "  lustily  and  with 
good  courage,"  till  every  sheep  had  skipped  out  much  quicker 
than  it  skipped  in;  and  then,  springing  over  the  fence,  he 
seized  a  great  stone,  and  nailed  on  the  picket  so  effectually 
that  no  sheep  could  possibly  encourage  the  hope  of  getting  in 
again.  This  was  all  the  work  of  a  minute,  and  he  was  back 
again ;  but  so  exceedingly  out  of  breath  that  it  was  necessary 
for  him  to  stop  a  moment  and  rest  himself.  Uncle  Lot  looked 
ungraciously  satisfied. 

"  What  under  the  canopy  set  you  to  scampering  so  ?  "  said 
he  ;  "  I  could  a'  driv  out  them  critturs  myself." 

"  If  you  are  at  all  particular  about  driving  them  out  your- 
self, I  can  let  them  in  again,"  said  James. 

Uncle  Lot  looked  at  him  with  an  odd  sort  of  twinkle  in  the 
corner  of  his  eye. 

"  'Spose  I  must  ask  you  to  walk  in,"  said  he. 


24  UNCLE    LOT. 

"  Much  obliged,"  said  James  ;  "  but  I  am  in  a  great  hurry." 
So  saying,  he  started  in  very  business-like  fashion  towards  the 
gate. 

"  You'd  better  jest  stop  a  minute." 

"  Can't  stay  a  minute." 

"  I  don't  see  what  possesses  you  to  be  all  the  while  in  sich 
a  hurry ;  a  body  would  think  you  had  all  creation  on  your 
shoulders." 

"  Just  my  situation,  Uncle  Lot,"  said  James,  swinging  open 
the  gate. 

"  Well,  at  any  rate,  have  a  drink  of  cider,  can't  ye  ?  "  said 
Uncle  Lot,  who  was  now  quite  engaged  to  have  his  own  way 
in  the  case. 

James  found  it  convenient  to  accept  this  invitation,  and 
Uncle  Lot  was  twice  as  good-natured  as  if  he  had  staid  in 
the  first  of  the  matter. 

Once  fairly  forced  into  the  premises,  James  thought  lit  to 
forget  his  long  walk  and  excess  of  business,  especially  as  about 
that  moment  Aunt  Sally  and  Miss  Grace  returned  from  an 
afternoon  call.  You  may  be  sure  that  the  last  thing  these 
respectable  ladies  looked  for  was  to  find  Uncle  Lot  and 
Master  James  tete-a-tete,  over  a  pitcher  of  cider ;  and  when, 
as  they  entered,  our  hero  looked  up  with  something  of  a  mis- 
chievous air,  Miss  Grace,  in  particular,  was  so  puzzled  that  it 
took  her  at  least  a  quarter  of  an  hour  to  untie  her  bonnet 
strings.  But  James  staid,  and  acted  the  agreeable  to  perfec- 
tion. First,  he  must  needs  go  down  into  the  garden  to  look  at 
Uncle  Lot's  wonderful  cabbages,  and  then  he  promenaded  all 
around  the  corn  patch,  stopping  every  few  moments  and  look- 
ing up  with  an  appearance  of  great  gratification,  as  h"  he  had 
never    seen    such    corn    in    his    life;    and   then   he   examined 


UNCLE    LOT.  25 

Uncle  Lot's  favorite  apple  tree  with  an  expression  of  wonder- 
ful interest. 

"  I  never ! "  he  broke  forth,  having  stationed  himself 
against  the  fence  opposite  to  it  ;  "what  kind  of  an  apple  tree 
is  that  ?  " 

"  It's  a  bellflower,  or  somethin'  another,"  said  Uncle  Lot. 

"  Why,  where  did  you  get  it  ?  I  never  saw  such  apples  !  " 
said  our  hero,  with  his  eyes  still  fixed  on  the  tree. 

Uncle  Lot  pulled  up  a  stalk  or  two  of  weeds,  and  threw 
them  over  the  fence,  just  to  show  that  he  did  not  care  any 
thing  about  the  matter ;  and  then  he  came  up  and  stood  by 
James. 

"  Nothin'  so  remarkable,  as  I  know  on,"  said  he. 

Just  then,  Grace  came  to  say  that  supper  was  ready.  Once 
seated  at  table,  it  was  astonishing  to  see  the  perfect  and 
smiling  assurance  with  which  our  hero  continued  his  addresses 
to  Uncle  Lot.  It  sometimes  goes  a  great  way  towards  mak- 
ing people  like  us  to  take  it  for  granted  that  they  do  already ; 
and  upon  this  principle  James  proceeded.  He  talked,  laughed, 
told  stories,  and  joked  with  the  most  fearless  assurance,  occa- 
sionally seconding  his  words  by  looking  Uncle  Lot  in  the 
face,  with  a  countenance  so  full  of  good  will  as  would  have 
melted  any  snowdrift  of  prejudices  in  the  world. 

James  also  had  one  natural  accomplishment,  more  courtier- 
like than  all  the  diplomacy  in  Europe,  and  that  was  the  gift 
of  feeling  a  real  interest  for  any  body  in  five  minutes  ;  so 
that,  if  he  began  to  please  in  jest,  he  generally  ended  -in  ear- 
nest. With  great  simplicity  of  mind,  he  had  a  natural  tact  for 
seeing  into  others,  and  watched  their  motions  with  the  same 
delight  with  which  a  child  gazes  at  the  wheels  and  springs  of 
a  watch,  to  "see  what  it  will  do." 
3 


2G  UNCLE    LOT. 

The  rough  exterior  and  latent  kindness  of  Uncle  Lot  were 
quite  a  spirit-stirring  study  ;  and  when  tea  was  over,  as  he 
and  Grace  happened  to  be  standing  together  in  the  front  door, 
he  broke  forth,  — 

"  I  do  really  like  your  father,  Grace  !  " 

"  Do  you  ?  "  said  Grace. 

"  Yes,  I  do.  He  has  something  in  him,  and  I  like  him  al) 
the  better  for  having  to  fish  it  out." 

"  Well,  I  hope  you  will  make  him  like  you,"  said  Grace, 
unconsciously;  and  then  she  stopped,  and  looked  a  little 
ashamed. 

James  was  too  well  bred  to  see  this,  or  look  as  if  Grace 
meant  any  more  than  she  said  —  a  kind  of  breeding  not  al- 
ways attendant  on  more  fashionable  polish  —  so  he  only  an- 
swered, — 

"  I  think  I  shall,  Grace,  though  I  doubt  whether  I  can  get 
him  to  own  it." 

"  He  is  the  kindest  man  that  ever  was,"  said  Grace ;  "  and 
he  always  acts  as  if  he  was  ashamed  of  it." 

James  turned  a  little  away,  and  looked  at  the  bright  even- 
ing sky,  which  was  glowing  like  a  calm,  golden  sea ;  and 
over  it  was  the  silver  new  moon,  with  one  little  star  to  hold 
the  candle  for  her.  He  shook  some  bright  drops  off  from  a 
rosebush  near  by,  and  watched  to  see  them  shine  as  they  fell, 
while  Grace  stood  very  quietly  waiting  for  him  to  speak 
again. 

"  Grace,"  said  he,  at  last,  "  I  am  going  to  college  this  fall." 

"  So  you  told  me  yesterday,"  said  Grace. 

James  stooped  down  over  Grace's  geranium,  and  began  to 
busy  himself  with  pulling  off  all  the  dead  leaves,  remarking 
in  the  mean  while,  — 


UNCLE    LOT.  27 

"  And  if  I  do  get  him  to  like  me,  Grace,  will  you  like  nie 
too?" 

"  I  like  you  now  very  well,"  said  Grace. 

"  Come,  Grace,  you  know  what  I  mean,"  said  James,  look- 
ing steadfastly  at  the  top  of  the  apple  tree.  • 

"  Well,  I  wish,  then,  you  would  understand  what  i"  mean, 
without  my  saying  any  more  about  it,"  said  Grace. 

"  O,  to  be  sure  I  will ! "  said  our  hero,  looking  up  with  a 
very  intelligent  air  ;  and  so,  as  Aunt  Sally  would  say,  the 
matter  was  settled,  with  "  no  words  about  it." 

Now  shall  we  narrate  how  our  hero,  as  he  saw  Uncle  Lot 
approaching  the  door,  had  the  impudence  to  take  out  his  flute, 
and  put  the  parts  together,  arranging  and  adjusting  the  stops 
with  great  composure  ? 

"  Uncle  Lot,"  said  he,  looking  up,  "  this  is  the  best  flute  that 
ever  I  saw." 

"  I  hate  them  tooting  critturs,"  said  Uncle  Lot,  snappishly. 

"  I  declare  !  I  wonder  how  you  can,"  said  James,  "  for  I 
do  think  they  exceed " 

So  saying,  he  put  the  flute  to  his  mouth,  and  ran  up  and 
down  a  long  flourish. 

"  There  !  what  do  you  think  of  that  ?  "  said  he,  looking  in 
Uncle  Lot's  face  with  much  delight. 

Uncle  Lot  turned  and  marched  into  the  house,  but  soon 
faced  to  the  right-about,  and  came  out  again,  for  James  was 
lingering  "Yankee  Doodle"  —  that  appropriate  national  air 
for  the  descendants  of  the  Puritans. 

Uncle  Lot's  patriotism  began  to  bestir  itself;  and  now,  if  it 
had  been  any  thing,  as  he  said,  but  "  that  'are  flute  "  —  as  it 
was,  he  looked  more  than  once  at  James's  fingers. 

"  How  under  the  sun  could  you  learn  to  do  that  ?"  said  he. 


28  UNCLE    LOT. 

"  0,  it's  easy  enough,"  said  James,  proceeding  with  another 
tune;  and,  having  played  it  through,  he  stopped  a  moment  to 
examine  the  joints  of  his  flute,  and  in  the  mean  time  addressed 
Uncle  Lot :  "  You  can't  think  how  grand  this  is  for  pitching 
tune!* — I  always  pitch  the  tunes  on  Sunday  with  it." 

"  Yes ;  but  I  don't  think  it's  a  right  and  lit  instrument  for 
the  Lord's  house,"  said  Uncle  Lot. 

"  Why  not  ?  It  is  only  a  kind  of  a  long  pitchpipe,  you 
see,"  said  James  ;  "  and,  seeing  the  old  one  is  broken,  and  tins 
will  answer,  I  don't  see  why  it  is  not  better  than  nothing." 

"  Why,  yes,  it  may  be  better  than  nothing,"  said  Uncle 
Lot ;  "  but,  as  I  always  tell  Grace  and  my  wife,  it  ain't  the 
right  kind  of  instrument,  after  all ;  it  ain't  solemn." 

"  Solemn  ! "  said  James ;  "  that  is  according  as  you  work 
it :  see  here,  now." 

So  saying,  he  struck  up  Old  Hundred,  and  proceeded 
through  it  with  great  perseverance. 

"  There,  now7 !  "  said  he. 

"  Well,  well,  I  don't  know  but  it  is,"  said  Uncle  Lot ;  "  but, 
as  I  said  at  first,  I  don't  like  the  look  of  it  in  meetin'." 

k>  But  yet  you  really  think  it  is  better  than  nothing,"  said 
James,  "  for  you  see  I  couldn't  pitch  my  tunes  without  it." 

"Maybe  'tis,"  said  Uncle  Lot;  "but  that  isn't  sayin' 
much." 

This,  however,  was  enough  for  Master  James,  who  soon 
after  departed,  with  his  flute  in  his  pocket,  and  Grace's  last 
words  in  his  heart  ;  soliloquizing  as  he  shut  the  gate,  "  There, 
now7,  I  hope  Aunt  Sally  won't  go  to  praising  me  ;  for,  just  so 
sure  as  she  docs.  I  shall  have  it  all  to  do  over  again." 

James  was  right  in  his  apprehension.  Uncle  Lot  could  be 
privately  converted,  but  not  brought  to  open  confession ;  and 


UK  CLE    LOT.  29 

when,  the  next  morning,  Aunt  Sally  remarked,  in  the  kind- 
ness of  her  heart, — 

"  Well,  I  always  knew  you  would  come  to  like  James," 
Uncle  Lot  only  responded,  "  Who  said  I  did  like  him  ?  " 

"  But  I'm  sure  you  seemed  to  like  him  last  night." 

"  Why,  I  couldn't  turn  him  out  o'  doors,  could  I  ?  I  don't 
think  nothin'  of  him  but  what  I  always  did." 

But  it  was  to  be  remarked  that  Uncle  Lot  contented  him- 
self at  this  time  with  the  mere  general  avowal,  without  run- 
ning it  into  particulars,  as  was  formerly  his  wont.  It  was 
evident  that  the  ice  had  begun  to  melt,  but  it  might  have  been 
a  long  time  in  dissolving,  had  not  collateral  incidents  assisted. 

It  so  happened  that,  about  this  time,  George  Griswold,  the 
only  son  before  referred  to,  returned  to  his  native  village, 
after  having  completed  his  theological  studies  at  a  neighboring 
institution.  It  is  interesting  to  mark  the  gradual  development 
of  mind  and  heart,  from  the  time  that  the  white-headed,  bash- 
ful boy  quits  the  country  village  for  college,  to  the  period 
when  he  returns,  a  formed  and  matured  man,  to  notice  how 
gradually  the  rust  of  early  prejudices  begins  to  cleave  from 
him  —  how  his  opinions,  like  his  handwriting,  pass  from  the 
cramped  and  limited  forms  of  a  country  school  into  that  con- 
firmed and  characteristic  style  which  is  to  mark  the  man  for 
life.  In  George  this  change  was  remarkably  striking.  He 
was  endowed  by  nature  with  uncommon  acuteness  of  feeling 
and  fondness  for  reflection  —  qualities  as  likely  as  any  to  ren- 
der a  child  backward  and  uninteresting  in  early  lite. 

When  he  left  Newbury  for  college,  he  was  a  taciturn  and  ap- 
parently phlegmatic  boy,  only  evincing  sensibility  by  blushing 
and  looking  particularly  stupefied  whenever  any  body  spoke 
to   him.     Vacation   after  vacation  passed,  and   he   returned 
3* 


30  UNCLE    LOT. 

more  and  more  an  altered  being ;  and  he  who  once  shrunk 
from  the  eye  of  the  deacon,  and  was  ready  to  sink  if  he  met 
the  minister,  now  moved  about  among  the  dignitaries  of  the 
place  with  all  the  composure  of  a  superior  being. 

It  was  only  to  be  regretted  that,  while  the  mind  improved, 
the  physical  energies  declined,  and  that  every  visit  to  his 
home  found  him  paler,  thinner,  and  less  prepared  in  body  for 
the  sacred  profession  to  which  he  had  devoted  himself.  But 
now  he  was  returned,  a  minister  —  a  real  minister,  with  a 
right  to  stand  in  the  pulpit  and  preach  ;  and  what  a  joy  and 
glory  to  Aunt  Sally  —  and  to  Uncle  Lot,  if  he  were  not 
ashamed  to  own  it ! 

The  first  Sunday  after  he  came,  it  was  known  far  and  near 
that  George  Griswold  was  to  preach  ;  and  never  was  a  more 
ready  and  expectant  audience. 

As  the  time  for  reading  the  first  psalm  approached,  you 
might  see  the  white-headed  men  turning  their  faces  attentively 
towards  the  pulpit;  the  anxious  and  expectant  old  women, 
with  their  little  black  bonnets,  bent  forward  to  see  him  rise. 
There  were  the  children  looking,  because  every  body  else 
looked ;  there  was  Uncle  Lot  in  the  front  pew,  his  face  con- 
siderately adjusted;  there  was  Aunt  Sally,  seeming  as  pleased 
as  a  mother  could  seem  ;  and  Miss  Grace,  lifting  her  sweet 
face  to  her  brother,  like  a  flower  to  the  sun  ;  there  was  our 
friend  James  in  the  front  gallery,  his  joyous  countenance  a 
little  touched  with  sobriety  and  expectation  ;  in  short,  a  more 
embarrassingly  attentive  audience  never  greeted  the  first  effort 
of  a  young  minister.  Under  these  circumstances  there  was 
something  touching  in  the  fervent  self-forgetfulness  which 
characterized  the  first  exercises  of  the  moraine  —  something 
which  moved  every  one  in  the  house. 


UNCLE    LOT.  31 

The  devout  poetry  of  his  prayer,  rich  with  the  Orientalism 
of  Scripture;  and  eloquent  with  the  expression  of  strong  yet 
chastened  emotion,  breathed  over  his  audience  like  music, 
hushing  every  one  to  silence,  and  beguiling  every  one  to  feel- 
ing. In  the  sermon,  there  was  the  strong  intellectual  nerve, 
the  constant  occurrence  of  argument  and  statement,  which 
distinguishes  a  New  England  discourse  ;  but  it  was  touched 
with  life  by  the  intense,  yet  half-subdued,  feeling  with  which 
he  seemed  to  utter  it.  Like  the  rays  of  the  sun,  it  enlight- 
ened and  melted  at  the  same  moment. 

The  strong  peculiarities  of  New  England  doctrine,  involv- 
ing, as  they  do,  all  the  hidden  machinery  of  mind,  all  the 
mystery  of  its  divine  relations  and  future  progression,  and 
all  the  tremendous  uncertainties  of  its  eternal  good  or  ill, 
seemed  to  have  dwelt  in  his  mind,  to  have  burned  in  his 
thoughts,  to  have  wrestled  with  his  powers,  and  they  gave  to 
his  manner  the  fervency  almost  of  another  world ;  while  the 
exceeding  paleness  of  his  countenance,  and  a  tremulousness 
of  voice  that  seemed  to  spring  from  bodily  weakness,  touched 
the  strong  workings  of  his  mind  with  a  pathetic  interest,  as  if 
the  being  so  early  absorbed  in  another  world  could  not  be 
long  for  this. 

When  the  services  were  over,  the  congregation  dispersed 
with  the  air  of  people  who  had  felt  rather  than  heard  ;  and 
all  the  criticism  that  followed  was  similar  to  that  of  old  Dea- 
con Hart  —  an  upright,  shrewd  man  —  who,  as  he  lingered  a 
moment  at  the  church  door,  turned  and  gazed  with  unwonted 
feeling  at  the  young  preacher. 

"  He's  a  blessed  cre'tur !  "  said  he,  the  tears  actually  mak- 
ing their  way  to  his  eyes  ;  "  I  hain't  been  so  near  heaven  this 
many  a  day.  He's  a  blessed  cre'tur  of  the  Lord ;  that's  my 
mind  about  him  !  " 


32  UNCLE    LOT. 

-As  for  our  friend  James,  he  was  at  first  sobered,  then  deep- 
ly moved,  and  at  last  wholly  absorbed  by  the  discourse  ;  and 
it  was  only  when  meeting  was  over  that  he  began  to  think 
where  he  really  was. 

With  all  his  versatile  activity,  James  had  a  greater  depth 
of  mental  capacity  than  he  was  himself  aware  of,  and  he  be- 
gan to  feel  a  sort  of  electric  affinity  for  the  mind  that  had 
touched  him  in  a  way  so  new ;  and  when  he  saw  the  mild 
minister  standing  at  the  foot  of  the  pulpit  stairs,  he  made 
directly  towards  him. 

"  I  do  want  to  hear  more  from  you,"  said  he,  with  a  face 
full  of  earnestness  ;  "  may  I  walk  home  with  you  ?  " 

"  It  is  a  long  and  warm  walk,"  said  George,  smiling. 

"  O,  I  don't  care  for  that,  if  it  does  not  trouble  you"  said 
James  ;  and  leave  being  gained,  you  might  have  seen  them 
slowly  passing  along  under  the  trees,  James  pouring  forth  all 
the  floods  of  inquiry  which  the  sudden  impulse  of  his  mind 
had  brought  out,  and  supplying  his  guide  with  more  questions 
and  problems  for  solution  than  he  could  have  gone  through 
with  in  a  month. 

"  I  cannot  answer  all  your  questions  now,"  said  he,  as  they 
stopped  at  Uncle  Lot's  gate. 

"  Well,  then,  when  will  you  ?  "  said  James,  eagerly.  "  Let 
me  come  home  with  you  to-night  ?  " 

The  minister  smiled  assent,  and  James  departed  so  full  of 
new  thoughts,  that  he  passed  Grace  without  even  seeing  her. 
From  that  time  a  friendship  commenced  between  the  two, 
which  was  a  beautiful  illustration  of  the  affinities  of  opposites. 
It  was  like  a  friendship  between  morning  and  evening  —  all 
freshness  and  sunshine  on  one  side,  and  all  gentleness  and 
peace  on  the  other. 


UNCLE    LOT.  33 

The  young  minister,  worn  by  long-continued  ill  health,  by 
the  fervency  of  his  own  feelings,  and  the  gravity  of  his  owh 
reasonings,  found  pleasure  in  the  healthful  buoyancy  of  a  youth- 
ful, unexhausted  mind,  while  James  felt  himself  sobered  and 
made  better  by  the  moonlight  tranquillity  of  his  friend.  It  is 
one  mark  of  a  superior  mind  to  understand  and  be  influenced 
by  the  superiority  of  others  ;  and  this  was  the  case  with  James. 
The  ascendency  which  his  new  friend  acquired  over  him  was 
unlimited,  and  did  more  in  a  month  towards  consolidating  and 
developing  his  character  than  all  the  four  years'  course  of  a 
college.  Our  religious  habits  are  likely  always  to  retain  the 
impression  of  the  first  seal  which  stamped  them,  and  in  this 
case  it  was  a  peculiarly  happy  one.  The  calmness,  the  settled 
purpose,  the  mild  devotion  of  his  friend,  formed  a  just  alloy 
to  the  energetic  and  reckless  buoyancy  of  James's  character, 
and  awakened  in  him  a  set  of  feelings  without  which  the  most 
vigorous  mind  must  be  incomplete. 

The  effect  of  the  ministrations  of  the  young  pastor,  in 
awakening  attention  to  the  subjects  of  his  calling  in  the  village, 
was  marked,  and  of  a  kind  which  brought  pleasure  to  his  own 
heart.  But,  like  all  other  excitement,  it  tends  to  exhaustion, 
and  it  was  not  long  before  he  sensibly  felt  the  decline  of  the 
powers  of  life.  To  the  best  regulated  mind  there  is  something 
bitter  in  the  relinquishment  of  projects  for  which  we  have 
been  long  and  laboriously  preparing,  and  there  is  something 
far  more  bitter  in  crossing  the  long-cherished  expectations  of 
friends.  All  this  George  felt.  He  could  not  bear  to  look  on 
his  mother,  hanging  on  his  words  and  following  his  steps  with 
eves  of  almost  childish  delight  —  on  his  singular  father,  whose 
whole  earthly  ambition  was  bound  up  in  his  success,  and  think 
how   soon  the  "candle  of  their  old  age"  must  be  put  out. 


34  UNCLE    LOT. 

When  he  returned  from  a  successful  effort,  it  was  painful  to 
see  the  old  man,  so  evidently  delighted,  and  so  anxious  to  con- 
ceal his  triumph,  as  he  would  seat  himself  in  his  chair,  and 
begin  with,  "  George,  that  'are  doctrine  is  rather  of  a  puzzler  ; 
but  you  seem  to  think  you've  got  the  run  on't.  I  should  re'ly 
like  to  know  what  business  you  have  to  think  you  know  better 
than  other  folks  about  it ; "  and,  though  he  would  cavil  most 
courageously  at  all  George's  explanations,  yet  you  might  per- 
ceive, through  all,  that  he  was  inly  uplifted  to  hear  how  his 
boy  could  talk. 

If  George  was  engaged  in  argument  with  any  one  else,  he 
would  sit  by,  with  his  head  bowed  down,  looking  out  from  un- 
der his  shaggy  eyebrows  with  a  shamefaced  satisfaction  very 
unusual  with  him.  Expressions  of  affection  from  the  natural- 
ly gentle  are  not  half  so  touching  as  those  which  are  forced 
out  from  the  hard-favored  and  severe ;  and  George  was  affect- 
ed, even  to  pain,  by  the  evident  pride  and  regard  of  his  father. 

"  He  never  said  so  much  to  any  body  before,"  thought  he, 
"  and  what  will  he  do  if  I  die  ?  " 

In  such  thoughts  as  these  Grace  found  her  brother  engaged 
one  still  autumn  morning,  as  he  stood  leaning  against  the  gar- 
den fence. 

"  What  are  you  solemnizing  here  for,  this*  bright  day,  broth- 
er George  ?  "  said  she,  as  she  bounded  down  the  alley. 

The  young  man  turned  and  looked  on  her  happy  face  with 
a  sort  of  twilight  smile. 

"  How  happy  you  are,  Grace  !  "  said  he. 

"  To  be  sure  I  am  ;  and  you  ought  to  be  too,  because  you 
are  better." 

■4 1  am  happy,  Grace  —  that  is,  I  hope  I  shall  be." 

"  You  are  sick,  I  know  you  are,"  said  Grace ;  "  you  look 


UNCLE    LOT.  35 

worn  out.  O,  I  wish  your  heart  could  spring  once,  as  mine 
does." 

"  I  am  not  well,  dear  Grace,  and  I  fear  I  never  shall  be," 
said  he,  turning  away,  and  fixing  his  eyes  on  the  fading  trees 
opposite. 

"  O  George !  dear  George,  don't,  don't  say  that ;  you'll 
break  all  our  hearts,"  said  Grace,  with  tears  in  her  own  eyes. 

"  Yes,  but  it  is  true,  sister :  I  do  not  feel  it  on  my  own  ac- 
count so  much  as However,"  he  added,  "  it  will  all  be 

the  same  in  heaven." 

It  was  but  a  week  after  this  that  a  violent  cold  hastened  the 
progress  of  debility  into  a  confirmed  malady.  He  sunk  very 
fast.  Aunt  Sally,  with  the  self-deceit  of  a  fond  and  cheerful 
heart,  thought  every  day  that  "  he  would  be  better,"  and  Un- 
cle Lot  resisted  conviction  with  all  the  obstinate  pertinacity 
of  his  character,  while  the  sick  man  felt  that  he  had  not  the 
heart  to  undeceive  them. 

James  was  now  at  the  house  every  day,  exhausting  all  his 
energy  and  invention  in  the  case  of  his  friend ;  and  any  one 
who  had  seen  him  in  his  hours  of  recklessness  and  glee,  could 
scarcely  recognize  him  as  the  being  whose  step  was  so  careful, 
whose  eye  so  watchful,  whose  voice  and  touch  were  so  gentle, 
as  he  moved  around  the  sick  bed.  But  the  same  quickness 
which  makes  a  mind  buoyant  in  gladness,  often  makes  it  gen- 
tlest and  most  sympathetic  in  sorrow. 

It  was  now  nearly  morning  in  the  sick  room.  George  had 
boQn  restless  and  feverish  all  night ;  but  towards  day  lie  fell 
into  a  slight  slumber,  and  James  sat  by  his  side,  almost  hold- 
ing his  breath  lest  he  should  waken  him.  It  was  yet  dusk, 
but  the  sky  was  brightening  with  a  solemn  glow,  and  the  stars 
were  beginning  to  disappear;  all,  save  the  bright  and  morning 


36  UNCLE    LOT. 

one,  which,  standing  alone  in  the  east,  looked  tenderly  through 
the  casement,  like  the  eye  of  our  heavenly  Father,  watching 
over  us  when  all  earthly  friendships  are  fading. 

George  awoke  with  a  placid  expression  of  countenance,  and 
fixing  his  eyes  on  the  brightening  sky,  murmured  faintly,  — 

"  The  sweet,  immortal  morning  sheds 
Its  blushes  round  the  spheres." 

A  moment  after,  a  shade  passed  over  his  face  ;  he  pressed 
his  fingers  over  his  eyes,  and  the  tears  dropped  silently  on  his 
pillow. 

"  George  !  dear  George  !  "  said  James,  bending  over  him. 

"  It's  my  friends  —  it's  my  father  —  my  mother,"  said  he, 
faintly. 

"  Jesus  Christ  will  watch  over  them,"  said  James,  sooth- 
ingly. 

"  O,  yes,  I  know  he  will ;  for  he  loved  his  own  which  were 
in  the  world  ;  he  loved  them  unto  the  end.  But  I  am  dying 
—  and  before  I  have  done  any  good." 

"  O,  do  not  say  so,"  said  James;  "think,  think  what  you 
have  done,  if  only  for  me.  God  bless  you  for  it!  God  ivill 
bless  you  for  it ;  it  will  follow  you  to  heaven  ;  it  will  bring 
me  there.  Yes,  I  will  do  as  you  have  taught  me.  I  will  give 
my  life,  my  soul,  my  whole  strength  to  it ;  and  then  you  will 
not  have  lived  in  vain." 

George  smiled,  and  looked  upward  ;  "  his  face  was  as  that 
of  an  angel;"  and  James,  in  his  warmth,  continued, — 

"  It  is  not  I  alone  who  can  say  this  ;  we  all  bless  you ;  ev- 
ery one  in  this  place  blesses  you  ;  you  will  be  had  in  everlast- 
ing remembrance  by  some  hearts  here,  I  know." 

"  Bless  God  !  "  said  George. 


UNCLE    LOT.  37 

"  We  do,"  said  James.  "  I  bless  him  that  I  ever  knew  you  ; 
we  all  bless  him,  and  we  love  you,  and  shall  forever." 

The  glow  that  had  kindled  over  the  pale  face  of  the  invalid 
again  faded  as  he  said,  — 

"  But,  James,  I  must,  I  ought  to  tell  my  father  and  mother ; 
I  ought  to,  and  how  can  I  ?  " 

At  that  moment  the  door  opened,  and  Uncle  Lot  made  his 
appearance.  He  seemed  struck  with  the  paleness  of  George's 
face ;  and  coming  to  the  side  of  the  bed,  he  felt  his  pulse,  and 
laid  his  hand  anxiously  on  his  forehead,  and  clearing  his 
voice  several  times,  inquired  "  if  he  didn't  feel  a  little  better." 

"  No,  father,"  said  George ;  then  taking  his  hand,  he  looked 
anxiously  in  his  face,  and  seemed  to  hesitate  a  moment.  "  Fa- 
ther," he  began,  "  you  know  that  we  ought  to  submit  to  God." 

There  was  something  in  his  expression  at  this  moment 
which  flashed  the  truth  into  the  old  man's  mind.  He 
dropped  his  son's  hand  with  an  exclamation  of  agony,  and 
turning  quickly,  left  the  room. 

"  Father  !  father !  "  said  Grace,  trying  to  rouse  him,  as  he 
stood  with  his  arms  "folded  by  the  kitchen  window. 

"  Get  away,  child  !  "  said  he,  roughly. 

"  Father,  mother  says  breakfast  is  ready." 

"  I  don't  want  any  breakfast,"  said  he,  turning  short  about. 
"  Sally,  what  are  you  fixing  in  that  'ere  porringer  ?  " 

"  0,  it's  only  a  little  tea  for  George  ;  'twill  comfort  him  up, 
and  make  him  feel  better,  poor  fellow." 

"  You  won't  make  him  feel  better  —  he's  gone,"  said  Uncle 
Lot,  hoarsely. 

"  O,  dear  heart,  no  ! "  said  Aunt  Sally. 

"  Be  still  a'  contradicting  me  ;  I  won't  be  contradicted  all 
the  time  by  nobody.     The  short  of  the  case  is,  that  George  is 
4 


38  UNCLE    LOT. 

goin'  to  die  just  as  we've  got  hini  ready  to  be  a  minister  and 

all ;  and  I  wish  to  pity  I  was  in  my  grave  myself,  and  so " 

said  Uncle  Lot,  as  he  plunged  out  of  the  door,  and  shut  it  after 
him. 

It  is  well  for  man  that  there  is  one  Being  who  sees  the  suf- 
fering heart  as  it  is,  and  not  as  it  manifests  itself  through  the 
repellances  of  outward  infirmity,  and  who,  perhaps,  feels  more 
for  the  stern  and  wayward  than  for  those  whose  gentler  feel- 
ings win  for  them  human  sympathy.  With  all  his  singular- 
ities, there  was  in  the  heart  of  Uncle  Lot  a  depth  of  religious 
sincerity ;  but  there  are  few  characters  where  religion  does 
any  thing  more  than  struggle  with  natural  defect,  and  modify 
what  would  else  be  far  worse. 

In  this  hour  of  trial,  all  the  native  obstinacy  and  pertinacity 
of  the  old  man's  character  rose,  and  while  he  felt- the  necessity 
of  .«ul  >mission,  it  seemed  impossible  to  submit ;  and  thus,  re- 
proaching himself,  struggling  in  vain  to  repress  the  murmurs 
of  nature,  repulsing  from  him  all  external  sympathy,  his  mind 
was  "  tempest-tossed,  and  not  comforted." 

It  was  on  the  still  afternoon  of  the  following  Sabbath  that 
he  was  sent  for.  in  haste,  to  the  chamber  of  his  son.  He  en- 
tered, and  saw  that  the  hour  was  come.  The  family  were  all 
there.  Grace  and  James,  side  by  side,  bent  over  the  dying 
one,  and  his  mother  sat  afar  oil*  with  her  fare  hid  in  her 
apron,  "  that  she  might  not  see  the  death  of  the  child."  The 
aged  minister  was  there,  and  the  Bible  lay  open  before  him. 
The  father  walked  to  the  side  of  the  bed.  He  stood  still,  and 
gazed  on  (lie  face  now  brightening  with  "  life  and  immortal- 
ity." The  son  lifted  up  his  eyes  ;  he  saw  his  hither,  smiled, 
and  put  out  his  hand.  "I  am  glad  you  are  come,"  said  he. 
"  O  George,  to  the  pity,  don't  !  donH  smile  on  me  so  !     I  know 


UNCLE    LOT.  39 

what  is  coming  ;  I  have  tried,  and  tried,  and  I  can't,  I  can't 
have  it  so;"  and  his  frame  shook,  and  he  sobbed  audibly. 
The  room  was  still  as  death ;  there  was  none  that  seemed  able 
to  comfort  him.  At  last  the  son  repeated,  in  a  sweet,  but 
interrupted  voice,  those  words  of  man's  best  Friend  :  "  Let 
not  your  heart  be  troubled ;  in  my  Father's  house  are  many 
mansions." 

"  Yes  ;  but  I  can't  help  being  troubled ;  I  suppose  the  Lord's 
will  must  be  done,  but  it'll  kill  me." 

"  O  father,  don't,  don't  break  my  heart,"  said  the  son,  much 
agitated.  "  I  shall  see  you  again  in  heaven,  and  you  shall  see 
me  again  ;  and  then  '  your  heart  shall  rejoice,  and  your  joy 
no  man  taketh  from  you.' " 

"  I  never  shall  get  to  heaven  if  I  feel  as  I  do  now,"  said  the 
old  man.     "  I  cannot  have  it  so." 

The  mild  face  of  the  sufferer  was  overcast.  "  I  wish  he 
saw  all  that  I  do,"  said  he,  in  a  low  voice.  Then  looking  to- 
wards the  minister,  he  articulated,  "  Pray  for  us." 

They  knelt  in  prayer.  It  was  soothing,  as  real  prayer  al- 
ways must  be ;  and  when  they  rose,  every  one  seemed  more 
calm.  But  the  sufferer  was  exhausted;  his  countenance 
changed  ;  he  looked  on  his  friends  ;  there  was  a  faint  whisper, 
"Peace  I  leave  with  you"  —  and  he  was  in  heaven. 

Vie  need  not  dwell  on  what  followed.  The  seed  sown  by 
the  righteous  often  blossoms  over  their  grave  ;  and  so  was  it 
with  this  good  man.  The  words  of  peace  which  he  spoke 
unto  his  friends  while  he  was  yet  with  them  came  into  remem- 
brance after  he  was  gone;  gpd  though  he  was  laid  in  the 
grave  with  many  tears,  yet  it  was  with  softened  and  submis- 
sive  hearts. 

"  The  Lord  bless  him,"  said  Uncle  Lot,  as  he  and  James 


40  UNCLE    LOT. 

were  standing,  last  of  all,  over  the  grave.  "I  believe  my 
heart  is  gone  to  heaven  with  him  ;  and  I  think  the  Lord  really 
did  know  what  was  best,  after  all." 

Our  friend  James  seemed  now  to  become  the  support  of  the 
family ;  and  the  bereaved  old  man  unconsciously  began  to 
transfer  to  him  the  affections  that  had  been  left  vacant. 

"  James,"  said  he  to  him  one  day,  "  I  suppose  you  know 
that  you  are  about  the  same  to  me  as  a  son." 

"  I  hope  so,"  said  James,  kindly. 

"  Well,  well,  you'll  go  to  college  next  week,  and  none  o'  y'r 
keepin'  school  to  get  along.  I've  got  enough  to  bring  you  safe 
out  —  that  is,  if  you'll  be  car'ful  and  stiddy" 

James  knew  the  heart  too  well  to  refuse  a  favor  in  which 
the  poor  old  man's  mind  was  comforting  itself.  He  had  the 
self-command  to  abstain  from  any  extraordinary  expressions 
of  gratitude,  but  took  it  kindly,  as  a  matter  of  course. 

"  Dear  Grace,"  said  he  to  her,  the  last  evening  before  he 
left  home,  "  I  am  changed  ;  we  both  are  altered  since  we  first 
knew  each  other  ;  and  now  I  am  going  to  be  gone  a  long  time, 
but  I  am  sure " 

He  stopped  to  arrange  his  thoughts. 

"  Yes,  you  may  be  sure  of  all  those  things  that  you  wish  to 
say,  and  cannot,"  said  Grace. 

"  Thank  you,"  said  James ;  then,  looking  thoughtfully,  he 
added,  "  God  help  me.  I  believe  I  have  mind  enough  to  be 
what  I  mean  to ;  but  whatever  I  am  or  have  shall  be  given  to 
God  and  my  fellow-men  ;  and  then,  Grace,  your  brother  in 
heaven  will  rejoice  over  me." 

"  I  believe  he  does  now"  said  Grace.  "  God  bless  you, 
James ;  I  don't  know  what  would  have  become  of  us  if  you 
ha  1  not  been  here." 

k-  Yes,  you  will  live  to  be  like  him,  and  to  do  even  more 


UNCLE    LOT.  4  1 

good,"  she  added,  her  face  brightening  as  she  spoke,  till  James 

thought  she  really  must  be  right. 

***** 

It  was  five  years  after  this  that  James  was  spoken  of  as  an 
eloquent  and  successful  minister  in  the  state  of  C,  and  was 
settled  in  one  of  its  most  thriving  villages.  Late  one  au- 
tumn evening,  a  tall,  bony,  hard-favored  man  was  observed 
making  his  way  into  the  outskirts  of  the  place. 

"  Halloa,  there !  "  he  called  to  a  man  over  the  other  side  of 
a  fence  ;  "  what  town  is  this  'ere  ?  " 

"  It's  Farmington,  sir." 

"  Well,  I  want  to  know  if  you  know  any  thing  of  a  boy  of 
mine  that  lives  here  ?  " 

"  A  boy  of  yours  ?     Who  ?  " 

"  Why,  I've  got  a  boy  here,  that's  livin'  on  the  town,  and  I 
thought  I'd  jest  look  him  up." 

"  I  don't  know  any  boy  that  is  living  on  the  town.  What's 
his  name  ?  " 

"  Why,"  said  the  old  man,  pushing  his  hat  off  from  his  fore- 
head, "  I  believe  they  call  him  James  Benton." 

"  James  Benton  !     Why,  that  is  our  minister's  name  !  " 

"  0,  wal,  I  believe  he  is  the  minister,  come  to  think  on't. 
He's  a  boy  o'  mine,  though.     Where  does  he  live  ?  " 

"  In  that  white  house  that  you  see  set  back  from  the  road 
there,  with  all  those  trees  round  it." 

At  this  instant  a  tall,  manly-looking  person  approached 
from  behind.  Have  we  not  seen  that  face  before  ?  It  is  a 
touch  gravei-  than  of  old,  audits  lines  have  a  more  thoughtful 
significance  ;  but  all  the  vivacity  of  James  Benton  sparkles  in 
that  quick  smile  as  his  eye  foils  on  the  old  man. 

"  I  thought  you  could  not  keep  away  from  us  long,"  said  he, 
4.  * 


42  UNCLE    LOT. 

with  the  prompt  cheerfulness  of  his  boyhood,  and  laying  hold 
of  both  of  Uncle  Lot's  hard  hands. 

They  approached  the  gate ;  a  bright  face  glances  past  the 
window,  and  in  a  moment  Grace  is  at  the  door. 

"  Father !  dear  father  !  " 

"  You'd  better  make  believe  be  so  glad,"  said  Uncle  Lot, 
his  eyes  glistening  as  he  spoke. 

"  Come,  come,  father,  I  have  authority  in  these  days,"  said 
Grace,  drawing  him  towards  the  house  ;  "  so  no  disrespectful 
speeches  ;  away  with  your  hat  and  coat,  and  sit  down  in  this 
great  chair." 

"  So,  ho !  Miss  Grace,"  said  Uncle  Lot,  "  you  are  at  your 
old  tricks,  ordering  round  as  usual.  Well,  if  I  must,  I  must ; " 
so  down  he  sat. 

"  Father,"  said  Grace,  as  he  was  leaving  them,  after  a  few 
days'  stay,  "  it's  Thanksgiving  day  next  month,  and  you  and 
mother  must  come  and  stay  with  us." 

Accordingly,  the  following  month  found  Aunt  Sally  and 
Uncle  Lot  by  the  minister's  fireside,  delighted  witnesses  of  the 
Thanksgiving  presents  which  a  willing  people  were  pouring 
in  ;  and  the  next  day  they  had  once  more  the  pleasure  of  see- 
ing a  son  of  theirs  in  the  sacred  desk,  and  hearing  a  sermon 
that  every  body  said  was  "  the  best  that  he  ever  preached ; " 
and  it  is  to  be  remarked,  that  this  was  the  standing  commen- 
tary on  all  James's  discourses,  so  that  it  was  evident  he  was 
going  on  unto  perfection. 

"  There's  a  great  deal  that's  worth  having  in  this  'ere  life 
after  all,"  said  Uncle  Lot,  as  hej'sat  by  the  coals  of  the  bright 
evening  fire  of  that  day ;  "  that  is,  if  we'd  only  take  it  when 
the  Lord  lays  it  in  our  way." 

"  Yes,"  said  James  ;  "  and  let  us  only  take  it  as  we  should, 
and  this  life  will  be  cheerfulness,  and  the  next  fulness  of  joy." 


LOVE    versus    LAW 


How  many  kinds  of  beauty  there  are !  How  many  even  in 
the  human  form !  There  are  the  bloom  and  motion  of  child- 
hood, the  freshness  and  ripe  perfection  of  youth,  the  dignity 
of  manhood,  the  softness  of  woman  —  all  different,  yet  each  in 
its  kind  perfect. 

But  there  is  none  so  peculiar,  none  that  bears  more  the 
image  of  the  heavenly,  than  the  beauty  of  Christian  old  age. 
It  is  like  the  loveliness  of  those  calm  autumn  days,  when  the 
heats  of  summer  are  past,  when  the  harvest  is  gathered  into 
the  garner,  and  the  sun  shines  over  the  placid  fields  and  fading 
woods,  which  stand  waiting  for  their  last  change.  It  is  a 
beauty  more  strictly  moral,  more  belonging  to  the  soul,  than 
that  of  any  other  period  of  life.  Poetic  fiction  always  paints 
the  old  man  as  a  Christian  ;  nor  is  there  any  period  where 
the  virtues  of  Christianity  seem  to  find  a  more  harmonious 
development.  The  aged  man,  who  has  outlived  the  hurry  of 
passion  —  who  has  withstood  the  urgency  of  temptation  — 
who  has  concentrated  the  religious  impulses  of  youth  into 
habits  of  obedience  and  love  —  who,  having  served  his  gen- 
eration by  the  will  of  God,  now  leans  in  helplessness  on  Him 
whom  once  he  served,  is,  perhaps,  one  of  the  most  faultless 

143) 


44  love  versus  law. 

representations  of  the  beauty  of  holiness  that  this  world 
affords. 

Thoughts  something  like  these  arose  in  my  mind  as  I 
slowly  turned  my  footsteps  from  the  graveyard  of  my  native 
village,  where  I  had  been  wandering  after  years  of  absence. 
It  was  a  lovely  spot  —  a  soft  slope  of  ground  close  by  a  little 
stream,  that  ran  sparkling  through  the  cedars  and  junipers 
beyond  it,  while  on  the  other  side  arose  a  green  hill,  with  the 
white  village  laid  like  a  necklace  of  pearls  upon  its  bosom. 

There  is  no  feature  of  the  landscape  more  picturesque  and 
peculiar  than  that  of  the  graveyard  —  that  "  city  of  the  silent," 
as  it  is  beautifully  expressed  by  the  Orientals  —  standing  amid 
the  bloom  and  rejoicing  of  nature,  its  white  stones  glittering 
in  the  sun,  a  memorial  of  decay,  a  link  between  the  living  and 
the  dead. 

As  I  moved  slowly  from  mound  to  mound,  and  read  the 
inscriptions,  which  purported  that  many  a  money-saving  man, 
and  many  a  busy,  anxious  housewife,  and  many  a  prattling, 
half-blossomed  child,  had  done  with  care  or  mirth,  I  was 
struck  with  a  plain  slab,  bearing  the  inscription,  "  To  the  mem- 
ory of  Deacon  Enos  Dudley,  who  died  in  his  hundredth  year." 
My  eye  was  caught  by  this  inscription,  for  in  other  years  I 
had  well  known  the  person  it  recorded.  At  this  instant,  his 
mild  and  venerable  form  arose  before  me  as  erst  it  used  to 
rise  from  the  deacon's  scat,  a  straight,  close  slip  just  below  the 
pulpit.  I  recollect  his  quiet  and  lowly  coming  into  meeting, 
precisely  ten  minutes  before  the  time,  every  Sunday,  —  his 
tall  form  a  little  stooping,  —  his  best  suit  of  butternut-colored 
Sunday  clothes,  with  long  flaps  and  wide  cuffs,  on  one  of 
which  two  pins  were  always  to  be  seen  stuck  in  with  the  most 
reverent  precision.     When  seated,  the  top  of  the  pew  came 


love  versus  LAW.  45 

just  to  his  chin,  so  that  his  silvery,  placid  head  rose  above  it 
like  the  moon  above  the  horizon.  His  head  was  one  that 
might  have  been  sketched  for  a  St.  John  —  bald  at  the  top, 
and  around  the  temples  adorned  with  a  soft  flow  of  bright 
fine  hair,  — 

"  That  down  his  shoulders  reverently  spread, 
As  hoary  frost  with  spangles  doth  attire 
The  naked  branches  of  an  oak  half  dead." 

He  was  then  of  great  age,  and  every  line  of  his  patient  face 
seemed  to  say,  "  And  now,  Lord,  what  wait  I  for  ? "  Yet 
still,  year  after  year,  was  he  to  be  seen  in  the  same  place, 
with   the  same  dutiful  punctuality. 

The  services  he  offered  to  his  God  were  all  given  with  the 
exactness  of  an  ancient  Israelite.  No  words  could  have  per- 
suaded him  of  the  propriety  of  meditating  when  the  choir 
was  singing,  or  of  sitting  down,  even  through  infirmity,  before 
the  close  of  the  longest  prayer  that  ever  was  offered.  A 
mighty  contrast  was  he  to  his  fellow-officer,  Deacon  Abrams, 
a  tight,  little,  tripping,  well-to-do  man,  who  used  to  sit  beside 
him  with  his  hair  brushed  straight  up  like  a  little  blaze,  his 
coat  buttoned  up  trig  and  close,  his  psalm  book  in  hand,  and 
his  quick  gray  eyes  turned  first  on  one  side  of  the  broad  aisle, 
and  then  on  the  other,  and  then  up  into  the  gallery,  like  a  man 
who  came  to  church  on  business,  and  felt  responsible  for  every 
thing  that  was  going  on  in  the  house. 

A  great  hinderance  was  the  business,  talent  of  this  good 
little  man  to  the  enjoyments  of  us  youngsters,  who,  perched 
along  in  a  row  on  a  low  seat  in  front  of  the  pulpit,  attempted 
occa  ionally  to  diversity  the  long  hour  of  sermon  by  sundry 
Email  exercises  of  our  own,  such  as  making  our  handkerchiefs 


46  love  versus  law. 

into  rabbits,  or  exhibiting,  in  a  sly  way,  the  apples  and  ginger- 
bread we  had  brought  for  a  Sunday  dinner,  or  pulling  the 
ears  of  some  discreet  meeting-going  dog,  who  now  and  then 
would  soberly  pitapat  through  the  broad  aisle.  But  woe  be 
to  us  during  our  contraband  sports,  if  we  saw  Deacon  Abrams's 
sleek  head  dodging  up  from  behind  the  top  of  the  deacon's 
seat.  Instantly  all  the  apples,  gingerbread,  and  handker- 
chiefs vanished,  and  we  all  sat  with  our  hands  folded,  looking 
as  demure  as  if  we  understood  every  word  of  the  sermon,  and 
more  too. 

There  was  a  great  contrast  between  these  two  deacons  in 
their  services  and  prayers,  when,  as  was  often  the  case,  the 
absence  of  the  pastor  devolved  on  them  the  burden  of  con- 
ducting the  duties  of  the  sanctuary.  That  God  was  great  and- 
good,  and  that  we  all  were  sinners,  were  truths  that  seemed  to 
have  melted  into  the  heart  of  Deacon  Enos,  so  that  his  very 
soul  and  spirit  were  bowed  down  with  them.  With  Deacon 
Abrams  it  was  an  undisputed  fact,  which  he  had  settled  long 
ago,  and  concerning  which  he  felt  that  there  could  be  no  rea- 
sonable doubt,  and  his  bustling  way  of  dealing  with  the  mat- 
ter seemed  to  say  that  he  knew  that  and  a  great  many  things 
besides. 

Deacon  Enos  was  known  far  and  near  as  a  very  proverb 
for  peacefulness  of  demeanor  and  unbounded  charitableness 
in  covering  and  excusing  the  faults  of  others.  As  long  as 
there  was  any  doubt  in  a  case  of  alleged  evil  doing,  Deacon 
Enos  guessed  "  the  man  did  not  mean  any  harm,  after  all ; " 
and  when  transgression  became  too  barefaced  for  this  excuse, 
he  always  guessed  "il  wa'n't  best  to  say  much  about  it ;  no- 
body could  tell  what  they  might  be  left  to." 

Some  incidents  in  his  life  will  show  more   clearly  these 


love  versus  law.  47 

traits.  A  certain  shrewd  landholder,  by  the  name  of  Jones, 
who  was  not  well  reported  of  in  the  matter  of  honesty,  sold 
to  Deacon  Enos  a  valuable  lot  of  land,  and  received  the 
money  for  it;  but,  under  various  pretences,  deferred  giving 
the  deed.  Soon  after,  he  died  ;  and,  to  the  deacon's  amaze- 
ment, the  deed  was  nowhere  to  be  found,  while  this  very  lot 
of  land  was  left  by  will  to  one  of  his  daughters. 

The  deacon  said  "  it  was  very  extraor'nary  :  he  always 
knew  that  Seth  Jones  was  considerably  sharp  about  money, 
but  he  did  not  think  he  would  do  such  a  right  up-and-down 
wicked  thing."  So  the  old  man  repaired  to  'Squire  Abel  to 
state  the  case,  and  see  if  there  was  any  redress.  "I  kinder 
hate  to  tell  of  it,"  said  he  ;  "  but,  'Squire  Abel,  you  know  Mr. 
Jones  was  —  was  —  what  he  was,  even  if  he  is  dead  and 
gone  ! "  This  was  the  nearest  approach  the  old  gentleman 
could  make  to  specifying  a  heavy  charge  against  the  dead. 
On  being  told  that  the  case  admitted  of  no  redress,  Deacon 
Enos  comforted  himself  with  half  soliloquizing,  "Well,  at 
any  rate,  the  land  has  gone  to  those  two  girls,  poor  lone  crit- 
ters —  I  hope  it  will  do  them  some  good.  There  is  Silence  — 
we  won't  say  much  about  her  ;  but  Sukey  is  a  nice,  pretty 
girl."  And  so  the  old  man  departed,  leaving  it  as  his  opinion 
that,  since  the  matter  could  not  be  mended,  it  was  just  as  well 
not  to  say  any  tiling  about  it. 

Now,  the  two  girls  here  mentioned  (to  wit,  Silence  and 
Sukey)  were  the  eldest  and  the  youngest  of  a  numi  i 
family,  the  offspring  of  three  wives  of  Seth  Jones,  of  whom 
these  two  were  the  sole  survivors.  The  elder.  Silence,  wi 
tall,  strong,  black-eyed,  hard-featured  woman,  verging  upon 
jood,  loud,  resolute  voice,  and  what  the  Irishman 
would   call   "a  dacent    notion    of  using    it."     Why  she  was 


48  love  versus  law. 

called  Silence  was  a  standing  problem  to  the  neighborhood ; 
for  she  had  more  faculty  and  inclination  for  making  a  noise 
than  any  person  in  the  whole  township.  Miss  Silence  was 
one  of  those  persons  who  have  no  disposition  to  yield  any  of 
their  own  rights.  She  marched  up  to  all  controverted  mat- 
ters, faced  down  all  opposition,  held  her  way  lustily  and  with 
good  courage,  making  men,  women,  and  children  turn  out 
for  her,  as  they  would  for  a  mail  stage.  So  evident  was  her 
innate  determination  to  be  free  and  independent,  that,  though 
she  was  the  daughter  of  a  rich  man,  and  well  portioned,  only 
one  swain  was  ever  heard  of  who  ventured  to  solicit  her  hand 
in  marriage  ;  and  he  was  sent  off  with  the  assurance  that,  if 
he  ever  showed  his  face  about  the  house  again,  she  would  set 
the  dogs  on  him. 

But  Susan  Jones  was  as  different  from  her  sister  as  the 
little  graceful  convolvulus  from  the  great  rough  stick  that  sup- 
ports it.  At  the  time  of  which  we  speak  she  was  just  eighteen  ; 
a  modest,  slender,  blushing  girl,  as  timid  and  shrinking  as  her 
sister  was  bold  and  hardy.  Indeed,  the  education  of  poor  Susan 
had  cost  Miss  Silence  much  painstaking  and  trouble,  and,  after 
all,  she  said  "  the  girl  would  make  a  fool  of  herself;  she  never 
could  teach  her  to  be  up  and  down  with  people,  as  she  was." 

When  the  report  came  to  Miss  Silence's  ears  that  Deacon 
Enos  considered  himself  as  aggrieved  by  her  father's  will,  she 
held  forth  upon  the  subject  with  great  strength  of  courage 
and  of  lungs.  "  Deacon  Enos  might  be  in  better  business 
than  in  trying  to  cheat  orphans  out  of  their  rights  —  she  hoped 
he  would  go  to  law  about  it,  and  see  what  good  he  would  get 
by  it  —  a  pretty  church  member  and  deacon,  to  be  sure! 
getting  up  such  a  story  about  her  poor  father,  dead  and 
gone! 


love  versus  law.  49 

"  But,  Silence,"  said  Susan,  "  Deacon  Enos  is  a  good  man  : 
I  do  not  think  he  means  to  injure  any  one  ;  there  must  be 
some  mistake  about  it." 

"  Susan,  you  are  a  little  fool,  as  I  have  always  told  you," 
replied  Silence  ;  "  you  would  be  cheated  out  of  your  eye  teeth 
if  you  had  not  me  to  take  care  of  you." 

But  subsequent  events  brought  the  affairs  of  these  two 
damsels  in  closer  connection  with  those  of  Deacon  Enos,  as 
we  shall  proceed  to  show. 

It  happened  that  the  next  door  neighbor  of  Deacon  Enos 
was  a  certain  old  farmer,  whose  crabbedness  of  demeanor  had 
procured  for  him  the  name  of  Uncle  Jaw.  This  agreeable 
surname  accorded  very  well  with  the  general  characteristics 
both  of  the  person  and  manner  of  its  possessor.  He  was  tall 
and  hard-favored,  with  an  expression  of  countenance  much 
resembling  a  north-east  rain  storm  —  a  drizzling,  settled  sulk- 
iness,  that  seemed  to  defy  all  prospect  of  clearing  off,  and  to 
take  comfort  in  its  own  disagreeableness.  His  voice  seemed 
to  have  taken  lessons  of  his  face,  in  such  admirable  keeping 
was  its  sawing,  deliberate  growl  with  the  pleasing  physiog- 
nomy before  indicated.  By  nature  he  was  endowed  with  one 
of  those  active,  acute,  hair-splitting  minds,  which  can  raise 
forty  questions  for  dispute  on  any  point  of  the  compass ;  and 
had  he  been  an  educated  man,  lie  might  have  proved  as  clever 
a  metaphysician  as  ever  threw  dust  in  the  eyes  of  succeeding 
generations.  But  being  deprived  of  these  advantages,  he 
nevertheless  exerted  himself  to  quite  as  useful  a  purpose  in 
puzzling  and  mystifying  whomsoever  came  in  his  way.  But 
his  activity  particularly  exercised  itself  in  the  line  of  the  law, 
as  it  was  his  meat,  and  drink,  and  daily  meditation,  either  to 
find  something  to  go  to  law  about,  or  to  go  law  about  some- 
5 


50  lote  versus  law. 

thing  lie  had  found.  There  was  always  some  question  about 
an  old  rail  fence  that  used  to  run  "  a  leetle  more  to  the  left 
hand,"  or  that  was  built  up  "  a  leetle  more  to  the  right  hand." 
and  so  cut  off  a  strip  of  his  -  medder  land'''  or  else  there  was 
some  outrage  of  Peter  Somebody's  turkeys  getting  into  his 
mowing,  or  Squire  Moses's  geese  were  to  be  shut  up  in  the 
town  pound,  or  something  equally  important  kept  him  busy 
from  year's  end  to  year's  end.  Nov.-,  as  a  matter  of  private 
amusement,  this  might  have  answered  very  well ;  but  then 
Uncle  Jaw  was  not  satisfied  to  light  his  own  battles,  but  must 
go  from  house  to  house,  narrating  the  whole  length  and 
Ith  of  the  case,  with  all  the  says  he's  and  says  Ts,  and  the 
I  tell  ad  he  telVd  me's,  which  do  either  accompany  or 

herefrom.  Moreover,  he  had  such  a  marvellous  faility 
of  finding  our  matters  to  quarrel  about,  and  of  letting  every 
one  else  know  where  they,  too.  could  muster  a  quarrel,  that  he 
generally  succeeded  in  keeping  the  whole  neighborhood  by 
the  ears. 

And  as  good  Deacon  Enos  assumed  the  office  of  peace- 
maker for  the  village,  Uncle  Jaw's  efficiency  rendered  it  no 
sinecure.  The  deacon  always  followed  the  steps  of  Uncle 
Jaw,  smoothing,  hushing  up,  and  putting  matters  aright  with 
an  a-si'i  ;:;y  that  was  truly  wonderful. 

Unci"  -law  himself  had  a  great  respect  for  the  good  man, 
and,  in  common  with  all  the  neighborhood,  sought  unto  him 
for  counsel,  though,  like  other  seekers  of  advice,  he  appro- 
priated only  -o  much  as  seemed  good  in  his  own  eyes. 

Still  he  took  a  kind  of  pleasure  in  dropping  in  of  an  even- 
ing to  Deacon  Enos's  fire,  to  recount  the  various  matters 
which  he  had  taken  or  was  to  take  in  hand  ;  at  one  time  to 
narrate    "  how  he    had   been    over  the  miildam,  telling  old 


LOVE   versus  LAW.  51 

Granny  Clark  that  she  could  get  ihe  law  of  Seth  Scran  about 
that  pasture  lot,"  or  else  "how  he  had  told  Ziah  Bacon's 
widow  that  she  had  a  right  to  shut  up  Bill  Scranton's  pig 
every  time  she  caught  him  in  front  of  her  house." 

But  the  grand  "  matter  of  matters,"  and  the  one  that  took 
up  the  most  of  Uncle  Jaw's  spare  time,  lay  in  a  dispute  be- 
tween him  and  'Squire  Jones,  the  father  of  Susan  and  Silence  ; 
for  it  so  happened  that  his  lands  and  those  of  Uncle  Jaw  were 
contiguous.  Now,  the  matter  of  dispute  was  on  this  wise  :  On 
'Squire  Jones's  laud  there  was  a  mill,  which  mill  Uncle  Jaw 
averred  was  "  always  a-flooding  his  medder  land."'  As  Uncle 
Jaw's  "medder  land"  was  by  nature  half  bog  and  bulrushes, 
and  therefore  liable  to  be  found  in  a  wet  condition,  there  was 
always  a  happy  obscurity  as  to  where  the  water  came  from, 
and  whether  there  was  at  any  time  more  there  than  belonged 
to  his  share.  So,  when  all  other  subject  matters  of  dispute 
failed,  Uncle  Jaw  recreated  himself  with  getting  up  a  lawsuit 
about  his  "medder  land;"  and  one  of  these  cases  was  in  pen- 
dency when,  by  the  death  of  the  squire,  the  estate  was  left  to 
Susan  and  Silence,  his  daughters.  When,  therefore,  the  re- 
port reached  him  that  Deacon  Enos  had  been  cheated  out  of 
his  dues,  Uncle  Jaw  prepared  forthwith  to  go  and  compare 
notes.  Therefore,  one  evening,  as  Deacon  Enos  was  sitting 
quietly  by  the  lire,  musing  and  reading  with  his  big  Bible 
open  before  him,  he  heard  the  premonitory  symptoms  of  a 
visitation  from  Uncle  Jaw  on  his  door  scraper;  and  soon  the 
man  made  his  appearance.  After  seating  himself  directly  in 
front  of  the  fire,  with  his  elbows  on  his  knees,  and  his  hands 
spread  out  over  the  coals,  he  looked  up  in  Deacon  Enos's  mild 
face  with  his  little  inquisitive  gray  eyes,  and  remarked,  by  way 
of  opening  the   subject,  "  Well,  deacon,  old  'Squire  Jones  is 


52  love  versus  law. 

gone  at  last.  I  wonder  how  much  good  all  his  land  will  do 
him  now  :  " 

••  Yes."  replied  Deacon  Enos.  "it  just  shows  how  all  these 
tilings  are  not  worth  striving  after.  We  brought  nothing  into 
the  world,  and  it  is  certain  we  can  carry  nothing  out." 

"  Why,  yes,"  replied  Uncle  Jaw.  "  that's  all  very  right, 
deacon  ;  but  it  was  strange  how  that  old  'Squire  Jones  did  hang 
u:i  to  things.  Now,  that  mill  of  his.  that  was  always  soaking 
off  water  into  these  medders  of  mine  —  I  took  and  tell'd  'Squire 
Jones  just  how  it  was.  pretty  nigh  twenty  times,  and  yet  he 
would  keep  it  just  so  ;  and  now  he's  dead  and  gone,  there  is 
that  old  gal  Silence  is  full  as  bad.  and  makes  more  noise ;  and 
she  and  Sake  have  got  the  land  ;  but.  you  see,  I  mean  to 
work  it  yet." 

Here  Uncle  Jaw  paused  to  see  whether  he  had  produced 
any  sympathetic  excitement  in  Deacon  Enos  ;  but  the  old 
man  sat  without  the  least  emotion,  quietly  contemplating  the 
top  of  the  long  kitchen  shovel.  Uncle  Jaw  tidgeted  in  his 
chair,  and  changed  his  mode  of  attack  for  one  more  direct. 
*'  I  heard  'em  tell.  Deacon  Enos.  that  the  squire  served  you 
something  of  an  unhandy  sort  of  trick  about  that  'ere  lot  of 
land." 

Still  Deacon  Enos  made  no  reply  ;  but  Uncle  Jaw's  per- 
severance was  not  so  to  be  put  off.  and  he  -recommenced. 
.  lie  tell'd  me  how  the  matter  was.  and 
he  said  he  did  as  it  could  be  mended  ;  but  I  took  and 

him,  •   3  V     V  says   i.  'I'd   bet   pretty  nigh  'most 

any  thing,  if  Deacon  Enos  would  tell  the  matter  to  me,  that  I 
could  find  a  hole  for  him  to  creep  out  at ;  for,'  says  I.  •  I've 
seen   daylight  through  more    twistical   cases  than  that  afore 


LOVE  versus  law.  53 

Still  Deacon  Enos  remained  mute  ;  and  Uncle  Jaw,  after 
waiting  a  while,  recommenced  with,  u  But,  raiily,  deacon,  I 
should  like  to  hear  the  particulars." 

u  I  have  made  up  my  mind  not  to  say  any  thing  more  about 
that  business,"  said  Deacon  Enos,  in  a  tone  which,  though 
mild,  was  so  exceedingly  definite,  that  Uncle  Jaw  felt  that  Uhj 
case  was  hopeless  in  that  quarter  ;  lie  therefore  betook  him- 
self to  the  statement  of  his  own  grievances. 

u  Why,  you  see,  deacon,"  he  began,  at  the  same  time  taking 
the  tongs,  and  picking  up  all  the  little  brands,  and  disposing 
them  in  the  middle  of  the  fire,  —  "you  see,  two  days  arter  the 
funeral,  (for  I  didn't  raiily  like  to  go  any  sooner.)  I  ste] 
up  to  hash  over  the  matter  with  old  Silence ;  for  as  to  Sukey, 
she  ha'n't  no  more  to  do  with  such  things  than  our  white  kit- 
ten. Xow,  you  see,  'Squire  Jones,  just  afore  he  died,  he  took 
away  an  old  rail  fence  of  his'n  that  lay  between  his  land  and 
mine,  and  began  to  build  a  new  stone  wall :  and  when  I  come 
to  measure,  I  found  he  had  took  and  put  a'most  the  whole 
width  of  the  stone  wall  on  to  my  land,  when  there  ought  not 
to  have  been  more  than  half  of  it  come  there.     Now,  you 

I  could  not  say  a  word  to  'Squire  Jones,  becau-  . 
fore  I  found  it  out,  he  took  and  died ;  and  so  I  thought  I'd 
speak  to  old   Silence,  and   see  if  she  meant  to  do  any  thing 
about  it.  'cause  I  knew  pretty  well  she  wouldn't ;  and  I 
you.  if  she  didn't  put  it  on  to  me  !    We  had  a  regular  pitched 
battle  —  the  old  gal,  I  thought  she  would  'a  screa:r- 
to  death!     I   don't   know  but  she  would,  but  just  then   poor 
Sukey  came  in,  and  looked  so  frightened  and  scare}'  —  S 
is  a  pretty  gal.  and  looks  so  trembling  and  deli  .:  it's 

kinder  a  shame  to  plague  her,  and  so  I  took  and  come  away 
for  that  time." 

5* 


54  love  versus  law. 

Here  Uncle  Jaw  perceived  a  brightening  in  the  face  of  the 
good  deacon,  and  felt  exceedingly  comforted  that  at  last  he 
was  about  to  interest  him  in  his  story. 

But  all  this  while  the  deacon  had  been  in  a  profound  medi- 
tation concerning  the  ways  and  means  of  putting  a  stop  to  a 
quarrel  that  had  been  his  torment  from  time  immemorial, 
and  just  at  this  moment  a  plan  had  struck  his  mind  which  our 
story  will  proceed  to  unfold. 

The  mode  of  settling  differences  which  had  occurred  to  the 
good  man  was  one  which  has  been  considered  a  specific  in 
reconciling  contending  sovereigns  and  states  from  early  an- 
tiquity, and  the  deacon  hoped  it  might  have  a  pacifying  in- 
fluence even  in  so  unpromising  a  case  as  that  of  Miss  Silence 
and  Uncle  Jaw. 

In  former  days,  Deacon  Enos  had  kept  the  district  school 
for  several  successive  winters,  and  among  his  scholars  was  the 
gentle  Susan  Jones,  then  a  plump,  rosy  little  girl,  with  blue 
eyes,  curly  hair,  and  the  sweetest  disposition  in  the  world. 
There  was  also  little  Joseph  Adams,  the  only  son  of  Uncle 
Jaw,  a  fine,  healthy,  robust  boy,  who  used  to  spell  the  longest 
words,  make  the  best  snowballs  and  poplar  whistles,  and  read 
the  loudest  and  fastest  in  the  Columbian  Orator  of  any  boy  at 
school. 

Little  Joe  inherited  all  his  father's  sharpness,  with  a  double 
?hare  of  good  humor ;  so  that,  though  he  was  forever  efferves- 
cing in  the  way  of  one  funny  trick  or  another,  he  was  a  uni- 
versal  favorite,  not  only  with  the  deacon,  but  with  the  whole 
Bchool. 

Master  Joseph  always  took  little  Susan  Jones  under  his 
especial  protection,  drew  her  to  school  on  his  sled,  helped  her 
out  with  all  the  long  sums  in  her  arithmetic,  saw  to  it  that 


love  versus  law.  55 

nobody  pillaged  her  dinner  basket,  or  knocked  down  her  bon- 
net, and  resolutely  whipped  or  snowballed  any  other  boy  who 
attempted  the  same  gallantries.  Years  passed  on,  and  Uncle 
Jaw  had  sent  his  son  to  college.  He  sent  him  because,  as  he 
said,  he  had  "  a  right  to  send  him ;  just  as  good  a  right  as 
'Squire  Abel  or  Deacon  Abrams  to  send  their  boys,  and  so 
he  would  send  him."  It  was  the  remembrance  of  his  old 
favorite  Joseph,  and  his  little  pet  Susan,  that  came  across  the 
mind  of  Deacon  Enos,  and  which  seemed  to  open  a  gleam  of 
light  in  regard  to  the  future.  So,  when  Uncle  Jaw  had  fin- 
ished his  prelection,  the  deacon,  after  some  meditation,  came 
out  with,  "  Railly,  they  say  that  your  son  is  going  to  have  the 
valedictory  in  college." 

Though  somewhat  startled  at  the  abrupt  transition,  Uncle 
Jaw  found  the  suggestion  too  flattering  to  his  pride  to  "be 
dropped;  so,  with  a  countenance  grimly  expressive  of  his 
satisfaction,  he  replied,  "Why,  yes  —  yes  —  I  don't  see  no 
reason  why  a  poor  man's  son  ha'n't  as  much  right  as  any  one 
to  be  at  the  top,  if  he  can  get  there." 

"  Just  so,"  replied  Deacon  Enos. 

"  He  was  always  the  boy  for  laming,  and  for  nothing  else," 
continued  Uncle  Jaw  ;  "  put  him  to  farming,  couldn't  make 
nothing  of  him.  If  I  set  him  to  hoeing  corn  or  hilling  pota- 
toes, I'd  always  find  him  stopping  to  chase  hop-toads,  or  off 
after  chip-squirrels.  But  set  him  down  to  a  book,  and  there 
he  was  !  That  boy  larnt  reading  the  quickest  of  any  boy  that 
ever  I  saw  :  it  wasn't  a  month  after  he  began  his  a  b,  abs, 
before  he  could  read  in  the  '  Fox  and  the  Brambles,'  and  in  a 
month  more  he  could  clatter  off  his  chapter  in  the  Testament 
as  fast  as  any  of  them  ;  and  you  see,  in  college,  it's  jest  so  — 
he  has  ris  right  up  to  be  first." 


56  love  versus  law. 

"  And  he  is  coming  home  "week  after  next,"  said  the  deacon, 
meditatively. 

The  next  morning,  as  Deacon  Enos  was  eating  his  break- 
fast, he  quietly  remarked  to  his  wife,  "  Sally,  I  believe  it 
was  week  after  next  you  were  meaning  to  have  your  quilt- 
ing ?  " 

"  Why,  I  never  told  you  so  :  what  alive  makes  you  think 
that,  Deacon  Dudley  ?  " 

"  I  thought  that  was  your  calculation,"  said  the  good  man, 
quietly. 

"  Why,  no  ;  to  be  sure,  I  can  have  it,  and  may  be  it's  the 
best  of  any  time,  if  we  can  get  Black  Dinah  to  come  and  help 
about  the  cakes  and  pies.     I  guess  we  will,  finally." 

"  I  think  it's  likely  you  had  better,"  replied  the  deacon, 
"  and  we  will  have  all  the  young  folks  here." 

And  now  let  us  pass  over  all  the  intermediate  pounding, 
and  grinding,  and  chopping,  which  for  the  next  week  foretold 
approaching  festivity  in  the  kitchen  of  the  deacon.  Let  us 
forbear  to  provoke  the  appetite  of  a  hungry  reader  by  setting 
in  order  before  him  the  minced  pies,  the  cranberry  tarts,  the 
pumpkin  pies,  the  doughnuts,  the  cookies,  and  other  sweet 
cakes  of  every  description,  that  sprang  into  being  at  the  magic 
touch  of  Black  Dinah,  the  village  priestess  on  all  these  solem- 
nities. Suffice  it  to  say  that  the  day  had  arrived,  and  the 
auspicious  quill  was  spread. 

The  invitation  had  not  failed  to  include  the  Misses  Silence 
ami  Susan  Jones  —  nay,  the  good  deacon  had  pressed  gallan- 
try into  the  matter  so  far  as  to  be  the  bearer  of  the  message 
himself;  lor  which  he  was  duly  rewarded  by  a  broadside  from 
Miss  Silence,  giving  him  what  she  termed  a  piece  of  her 
mind  in  the  matter  of  the  rights  of  widows  and  orphans  ;  to 


love  versus  law.  57 

all  which  the  good  old  man  listened  with  great  benignity  from 
the  beginning  to  the  end,  and  replied  with,  — 

"  Well,  well,  Miss  Silence,  I  expect  you  will  think  better 
of  this  before  long ;  there  had  best  not  be  any  hard  words  about 
it."  -So  saying,  he  took  up  his  hat  and  walked  off,  while  Miss 
Silence,  who  felt  extremely  relieved  by  having  blown  off 
steam,  declared  that  "  it  was  of  no  more  use  to  hector  old 
Deacon  Enos  than  to  fire  a  gun  at  a  bag  of  cotton  wool.  For 
all  that,  though,  she  shouldn't  go  to  the  quilting ;  nor,  more, 
should  Susan." 

"  But,  sister,  why  not?"  said  the  little  maiden  ;  "  I  think  I 
shall  go."  And  Susan  said  this  in  a  tone  so  mildly  positive 
that  Silence  was  amazed. 

"  What  upon  'arth  ails  you,  Susan  ?  "  said  she,  opening  her 
eyes  with  astonishment ;  "  haven't  you  any  more  spirit  than 
to  go  to  Deacon  Enos's  when  he  is  doing  all  he  can  to 
ruin  us  ?  " 

"  I  like  Deacon  Enos,"  replied  Susan  ;  "  he  was  always 
kind  to  me  when  I  was  a  little  girl,  and  I  am  not  going  to  be- 
lieve that  he  is  a  bad  man  now." 

When  a  young  lady  states  that  she  is  not  going  to  believe  a 
thing,  good  judges  of  human  nature  generally  give  up  the 
case  ;  but  Miss  Silence,  to  whom  the  language  of  opposition 
and  argument  was  entirely  new,  could  scarcely  give  her  ears 
credit  for  veracity  in  the  case ;  she  therefore  repeated  over 
exactly  what  she  said  before,  only  in  a  much  louder  tone  of 
voice,  and  with  much  more  vehement  forms  of  asseveration  — 
a  mode  of  reasoning  which,  if  not  strictly  logical,  has  at  least 
the  sanction  of  very  respectable  authorities  among  the  enlight- 
ened and  learned. 

"  Silence,"  replied  Susan,  when  the  storm  had  spent  itself, 


58  love  versus  law. 

u  if  it  did  not  look  like  being  angry  with  Deacon  Enos,  I 
would  stay  away  to  oblige  you  ;  but  it  would  seem  to  every 
one  to  be  taking  sides  in  a  quarrel,  and  I  never  did,  and  never 
will,  have  any  part  or  lot  in  such  things." 

"  Then  you'll  just  be  trod  and  trampled  on  all  your  days, 
hi."  replied  Silence;  "but,  however,  if  you  choose  to 
make  a  lool  of  yourself,  /don't ;"  and  so  saying,  she  flounced 
oul  of  the  room  in  great  wrath.  It  so  happened,  however, 
that  Miss  Silence  was  one  of  those  who  have  so  little  economy 
in  disposing  of  a  lit  of  anger,  that  it  was  all  used  up  before 
the  time  of  execution  arrived.  It  followed  of  consequence, 
that,  having  unburdened  her  mind  freely  both  to  Deacon  Enos 
and  to  Susan,  she  began  to  feel  very  much  more  comfortable 
and  good-natured  ;  and  consequent  upon  that  came  divers  re- 
jections upon  the  many  gossiping  opportunities  and  comforts 
of  a  quilting;  and  then  the  intrusive  little  reflection,  "What 
if  she  should  go,  after  all;  what  harm  would  be  done?"  and 
then  the  inquiry.  "  Whether  it  was  not  her  duty  to  go  and 
look  after  Susan,  poor  child,  who  had  no  mother  to  watch  over 
her?  "  In  -hoit,  before  the  time  of  preparation  arrived,  Miss 
Silence  had  fully  worked  herself  up  to  the  magnanimous  de- 
termination of  going  to  the  quilting.  Accordingly,  the  next 
day,  while  Susan  was  standing  before  her  mirror,  braiding  up 
her  pretty  hair,  she  was  startled  by  the  apparition  of  Miss 
Silence  coming  into  the  room  as  stiff  as  a  changeable  silk  and 
a  high  horn  comb  could  make  her;  and  "  grimly  determined 
was  her  link." 

u  Well,  Susan,"  said  she,  "if  you  will  go  to  the  quilting 
this  afternoon,  1  think  it  is  my  duty  to  go  and  see  to  you." 

Wh;.t  would  people  ,1,,  if  this  convenient  shelter  of  duty 
did  not  afford  them  a  retreat  in  cases  when  they,  are  disposed 


love  versus  law.  59 

to  change  their  minds  ?  Susan  suppressed  the  arch  smile  that, 
in  spite  of  herself,  laughed  out  at  the  corners  of  her  eyes,  and 
told  her  sister  that  she  was  much  obliged  to  her  for  her  care. 
So  off  they  went  together. 

Silence  in  the  mean  time  held  forth  largely  on  the  impor- 
tance of  standing  up  for  one's  rights,  and  not  letting  one's  self 
be  trampled  on. 

The  afternoon  passed  on,  the  elderly  ladies  quilted  and 
talked  scandal,  and  the  younger  ones  discussed  the  merits  of 
the  various  beaux  who  were  expected  to  give  vivacity  to  the 
evening  entertainment.  Among  these  the  newly-arrived  Jo- 
seph Adams,  -just  from  college,  with  all  his  literary  honors 
thick  about  him,  became  a  prominent  subject  of  conversation. 

It  was  duly  canvassed  whether  the  young  gentleman  might 
be  called  handsome,  and  the  affirmative  was  carried  by  a  large 
majority,  although  there  were  some  variations  and  exceptions ; 
one  of  the  party  declaring  his  whiskers  to  be  in  too  high  a 
state  of  cultivation,  another  maintaining  that  they  were  in  the 
exact  line  of  beauty,  while  a  third  vigorously  disputed  the 
point  whether  he  wore  whiskers  at  all.  It  was  allowed  by 
all,  however,  that  he  had  been  a  great  beau  in  the  town  where 
he  had  passed  his  college  days.  It  was  also  inquired  into 
whether  he  were  matrimonially  engaged ;  and  the-  negative 
being  understood,  they  diverted  themselves  with  predicting:  to 
one  another  the  capture  of  such  a  prize  ;  each  prophecy  being 
received  with  such  disclaimers  as  "  Come  now ! "  "  Do  be 
still !  "  "  Hush  your  nonsense  !  "  and  the  like. 

At  length  the  long-wished-for  hour  arrived,  and  one  by  one 
the  lords  of  the  creation  began  to  make  their  appearance ;  and 
one  of  the  last  was  this  much  admired  youth. 

"  That  is  Joe  Adams  ! "  "  That  is  he  ! "  was  the  busy  whis- 


Co  love  versus  law. 

per,  as  a  tall,  well-looking  young  man  came  into  the  room, 
with  the  easy  air  of  one  who  had  seen  several  things  before, 
and  was  not  to  be  abashed  by  the  combined  blaze  of  all  the 
village  beauties. 

In  truth,  our  friend  Joseph  had  made  the  most  of  his  resi- 
dence in  X.,  paying  his  court  no  less  to  the  Graces  than  the 
Muses.  His  line  person,  his  frank,  manly  air,  his  ready  con- 
versation, and  his  faculty  of  universal  adaptation  had  made 
his  society  much  coveted  among  the  beau  raondc  of  N. ;  and 
though  the  place  was  small,  he  had  become  familiar  with  much 
good  society. 

We  hardly  know  whether  we  may  venture  to  tell  our  fair 
readers  the  whole  truth  in  regard  to  our  hero.  We  will  mere- 
ly hint,  in  the  gentlest  manner  in  the  world,  that  Mr.  Joseph 
Adams,  being  undeniably  first  in  the  classics  and  first  in  the 
drawing  room,  having  been  gravely  commended  in  his  class  by 
his  venerable  president,  and  gayly  flattered  in  the  drawing  room 
by  the  elegant  Miss  This  and  Miss  That,  was  rather  inclining 
to  the  opinion  that  he  was  an  uncommonly  fine  fellow,  and 
even  had  the  assurance  to  think  that,  under  present  circum- 
stances, he  could  please  without  making  any  great  efibrt  —  a 
thing  which,  however  true  it  were  in  point  of  fact,  is  obvious- 
]v  improper  to  be  thought  of  by  a  young  man.  Be  that  as  it 
may,  he  moved  about  from  one  to  another,  shaking  hands 
with  all  the  old  ladies,  and  listening  with  the  greatest  affabili- 
ty to  the  various  comments  on  his  growth  and  personal 
appearance,  hia  points  of  resemblance  to  his  father,  mother, 
grandfather,  and  grandmother,  which  are  always  detected  by 
the  superior  acumen  of  elderly  females. 

Among  the  younger  oiks,  he  at  once,  and  with  full  frank- 
ii »  —  -   recognized   old   schoolmates,  and   partners   in   various 


love  versus  law.  61 

whortleberry,  chestnut,  and  strawberry  excursions,  and  thus 
called  out  an  abundant  flow  of  conversation.  Nevertheless, 
his  eye  wandered  occasionally  around  the  room,  as  if  in  search 
of  something  not  there.  What  could  it  be  ?  It  kindled,  how- 
ever, with  an  expression  of  sudden  brightness  as  he  perceived 
the  tall  and  spare  figure  of  Miss  Silence ;  whether  owing  to 
the  personal  fascinations  of  that  lady,  or  to  other  causes,  we 
leave  the  reader  to  determine. 

Miss  Silence  had  predetermined  never  to  speak  a  word 
again  to  Uncle  Jaw  or  any  of  his  race ;  but  she  was  taken  by 
surprise  at  the  frank,  extended  hand  and  friendly  "  how  d'ye 
do  ?  "  It  was  not  in  woman  to  resist  so  cordial  an  address 
from  a  handsome  young  man,  and  Miss  Silence  gave  her  hand, 
and  replied  with  a  graciousness  that  amazed  herself.  At  this 
moment,  also,  certain  soft  blue  eyes  peeped  forth  from  a  cor- 
ner, just  "  to  see  if  he  looked  as  he  used  to."  Yes,  there  he 
was  !  the  same  dark,  mirthful  eyes  that  used  to  peer  on  her  from 
behind  the  corners  of  the  spelling  book  at  the  district  school ; 
and  Susan  Jones  gave  a  deep  sigh  to  those  times,  and  then 
wondered  why  she  happened  to  think  of  such  nonsense. 

"  How  is  your  sister,  little  Miss  Susan  ?  "  said  Joseph. 

"  Why,  she  is  here  —  have  you  not  seen  her  ?  "  said  Silence  ; 
"  there  she  is,  in  that  corner." 

Joseph  looked,  but  could  scarcely  recognize  her.  There 
stood  a  tall,  slender,  blooming  girl,  that  might  have  been  se- 
lected as  a  specimen  of  that  union  of  perfect  health  with  deli- 
cate fairness  so  characteristic  of  the  young  New  England 
beauty. 

She  was  engaged  in  telling  some  merry  story  to  a  knot  of 
young  girls,  and  the  rich  color  that,  like  a  bright  spirit,  con- 
stantly went  and  came  in  her  cheeks  ;  the  dimples,  quick  and 
6 


62  love  versus  law.  - 

varying  as  those  of  a  little  brook  ;  the  clear,  mild  eye  ;  the  clus- 
tering curls,  and,  above  all,  the  happy,  rejoicing  smile,  and 
the  transparent  frankness  and  simplicity  of  expression  which 
1>,  amed  like  Bunshine  about  her,  all  formed  a  combination  of 
charms  that  took  our  hero  quite  by  surprise  ;  and  when  Silence, 
who  had  a  remarkable  degree  of  directness  in  all  her  dealings, 
called  out.  -  Here,  Susan,  is  Joe  Adams,  inquiring  after  you  !  " 
our  practised  young  gentleman  felt  himself  color  to  the  roots  of 
his  hair,  and  for  a  moment  he  could  scarce  recollect  that  first 
rudiment  of  manners,  "to  make  his  bow  like  a  good  boy." 
Susan  colored  also;  but,  perceiving  the  confusion  of  our  hero, 
her  countenance  assumed  an  expression  of  mischievous  droll- 
ery, which,  helped  on  by  the  titter  of  her  companions,  added 
not  a  little  to  his  confusion. 

"Deuse  take  it!"  thought  he,  "what's  the  matter  with 
me?"  and,  calling  up  his  courage,  he  dashed  into  the  for- 
midable circle  of  fair  ones,  and  began  chattering  with  one  and 
another,  calling  by  name  with  or  without  introduction,  remem- 
bering  things  that  never  happened,  with  a  freedom  that  was 
perfectly  fascinating. 

"  Really,  how  handsome  he  has  grown  !  "  thought  Susan ; 
and  she  colored  deeply  when  once  or  twice  the  dark  eyes  of  our 
hero  made  the  same  observation  with  regard  to  herself,  in  that 
quick,  intelligible  dialect  which  eyes  alone  can  speak.  And 
when  the  little  party  dispersed,  as  they  did  very  punctually  at 
nine  o'clock,  out-  hero  requested  of  Miss  Silence  the  honor  of 
attending  her  home  —  an  evidence  of  discriminating  taste  which 
materially  raised  him  in  the  estimation  of  that  lady.  It  was 
true,  to  be  sure,  that  Susan  walked  on  the  other  side  of  him, 
her  little  white  handjusl  within  his  arm;  and  there  was  some- 
thing in  that  light  touch  that  puzzled  him  unaccountably,  as 


love  versus  law.  63 

might  be  inferred  from  the  frequency  with  which  Miss  Silence 
was  obliged  to  bring  up  the  ends  of  conversation  with,  "  What 
did  you  say  ?  "  "  What  were  you  going  to  say  ?  "  and  other 
persevering  forms  of  inquiry,  with  which  a  regular-trained 
matter-of-fact  talker  will  hunt  down  a  poor  fellow-mortal  who 
is  in  danger  of  sinking  into  a  comfortable  revery. 

When  they  parted  at  the  gate,  however,  Silence  gave  our 
hero  a  hearty  invitation  to  "  come  and  see  them  any  time," 
which  he  mentally  regarded  as  more  to  the  point  than  any 
thing  else  that  had  been  said. 

As  Joseph  soberly  retraced  his  way  homeward,  his  thoughts, 
by  some  unaccountable  association,  began  to  revert  to  such 
topics  as  the  loneliness  of  man  by  himself,  the  need  of  kindred 
spirits,  the  solaces  of  sympathy,  and  other  like  matters. 

That  night  Joseph  dreamed  of  trotting  along  with  his 
dinner  basket  to  the  old  brown  school  house,  and  vainly  en- 
deavoring to  overtake  Susan  Jones,  whom  he  saw  with  her 
little  pasteboard  sun  bonnet  a  few  yards  in  front  of  him  ;  then 
he  was  teetering  with  her  on  a  long  board,  her  bright  little  face 
glancing  up  and  down,  while  every  curl  around  it  seemed  to 
be  living  with  delight ;  and  then  he  was  snowballing  Tom  Wil- 
liams for  knocking  down  Susan's  doll's  house,  or  he  sat  by  her 
on  a  bench,  helping  her  out  with  a  long  sum  in  arithmetic ; 
but,  with  the  mischievous  fatality  of  dreams,  the  more  he 
ciphered  and  expounded,  the  longer  and  more  hopeless  grew 
the  sum ;  and  he  awoke  in  the  morning  pshawing  at  his  ill 
luck,  after  having  done  a  sum  over  half  a  dozen  times,  while 
Susan  seemed  to  be  looking  on  with  the  same  air  of  arch 
drollery  that  he  saw  on  her  face  the  evening  before. 

"  Joseph,"  said  Uncle  Jaw,  the  next  morning  at  breakfast, 
"  I  s'pose  'Squire  Jones's  daughters  were  not  at  the  quilting." 


64  love  versus  law. 

"Yes,  sir,  they  were,"  said  our  hero;  "they  were  both 
there." 

••  Why.  you  don't  say  so  !  " 

"  They  certainly  were,"  persisted  the  son. 

"  Well,  I  thought  the  old  gal  had  too  much  spunk  for  that: 
you  see  there  is  a  quarrel  between  the  deacon  and  them  gals." 

••Indeed!"  said  Joseph.  "I  thought  the  deacon  never 
quarrelled  with  any  body." 

"  But,  you  see,  old  Silence  there,  she  will  quarrel  with  him  : 
railly,  that  cretur  is  a  tough  one  ; "  and  Uncle  Jaw  leaned 
back  in  his  chair,  and  contemplated  the  quarrelsome  propensi- 
ties of  Miss  Silence  witli  the  satisfaction  of  a  kindred  spirit. 
"  But  I'll  fix  her  yet,"  he  continued  ;  "  I  see  how  to  work  it." 

"  Indeed,  father,  I  did  not  know  that  you  had  any  thing  to 
do  with  their  affairs." 

"  Hain't  I?  I  should  like  to  know  if  I  hain't!"  replied 
Uncle  Jaw,  triumphantly.  "  Now,  see  here,  Joseph  :  you  see, 
I  mean  you  shall  be  a  lawyer:  I'm  pretty  considerable  of  a 
lawyer  myself — that  is,  for  one  not  college  larnt;  and  I'll  tell 
you  how  it  is"  —  and  thereupon  Uncle  Jaw  launched  forth 
into  tin-  case  of  the  medder  land  and  the  mill,  and  concluded 
with,  "  Now,  Joseph,  this  'ere  is  a  kinder  whetstone  for  you 
to  hone  up  your  wits  on." 

In  pursuance,  therefore,  of  this  plan  of  sharpening  his  wits 
in  the  manner  aforesaid,  our  hero,  after  breakfast,  went  like  a 
dutiful  Bon,  directly  towards  'Squire  Jones's,  doubtless  for  the 
purpose  <>t'  taking  ocular  survey  of  the  meadow  land,  mill,  and 
stone  wall ;  but,  by  some  unaccountable  mistake,  lost  his  way, 
ami  found  himself  standing  before  the  door  of  'Squire  Jones's 
housi  . 

The    old   squire    had    been  among   the    aristocracy  of  the 


love  versus  law.  65 

village,  and  his  house  had  been  the  ultimate  standard  of  com- 
parison in  all  matters  of  style  and  garniture.  Their  big 
front  room,  instead  of  being  strewn  with  lumps  of  sand, 
duly  streaked  over  twice  a  week,  was  resplendent  with  a  car- 
pet of  red,  yellow,  and  black  stripes,  while  a  towering  pair  of 
long-legged  brass  andirons,  scoured  to  a  silvery  white,  gave  an 
air  of  magnificence  to  the  chimney,  which  was  materially  in- 
creased by  the  tall  brass-headed  shovel  and  tongs,  which,  like 
a  decorous,  starched  married  couple,  stood  bolt  upright  in  their 
j)laces  on  either  side.  The  sanctity  of  the  place  was  still 
further  maintained  by  keeping  the  window  shutters  always 
closed,  admitting  only  so  much  light  as  could  come  in  by  a 
round  hole  at  the  top  of  the  shutter ;  and  it  was  only  on  occa- 
sions of  extraordinary  magnificence  that  the  room  was  thrown 
open  to  profane  eyes. 

Our  hero  was  surprised,  therefore,  to  find  both  the  doors 
and  windows  of  this  apartment  open,  and  symptoms  evident 
of  its  being  in  daily  occupation.  The  furniture  still  retained 
its  massive,  clumsy  stiffness,  but  there  were  various  tokens 
that  lighter  fingers  had  been  at  work  there  since  the  notable 
days  of  good  Dame  Jones.  There  was  a  vase  of  flowers  on 
the  table,  two  or  three  books  of  poetry,  and  a  little  fairy  work- 
basket,  from  which  peeped  forth  the  edges  of  some  worked 
ruffling ;  there  was  a  small  writing  desk,  and  last,  not  least,  in 
a  lady's  collection,  an  album,  with  leaves  of  every  color  of  the 
rainbowr,  containing  inscriptions,  in  sundry  strong  masculine 
hands,  "  To  Susan,"  indicating  that  other  people  had  had  their 
eyes  open  as  well  as  Mr.  Joseph  Adams.  "  So,"  said  he  to 
himself,  "  this  quiet  little  beauty  has  had  admirers,  after  all ;  " 
and  consequent  upon  this  came  another  question,  (which  was 
none  of  his  concern,  to  be  sure,)  whether  the  little  lady  were  or 


60  love  versus  LA\r. 

were  not  engaged ;  and  from  these  speculations  he  was 
aroused  by  a  light  footstep,  and  anon  the  neat  form  of  Susan 
made  its  appearance. 

"  Good  morning,  Miss  Jones,"  said  he,  bowing. 

Now,  there  is  something  very  comical  in  the  feeling,  when 
little  boys  and  girls,  who  have  always  known  each  other  as 
plain  Susan  or  Joseph,  first  meet  as  "Mr."  or  "Miss"  So- 
and-so.  Each  one  feels  half  disposed,  half  afraid,  to  return 
to  the  old  familiar  form,  and  awkwardly  fettered  by  the  rec- 
ollection that  they  are  no  longer  children.  Both  parties  had 
felt  this  the  evening  before,  when  they  met  in  company  ;  but 
now  that  they  were  alone  together,  the  feeling  became  still 
stronger ;  and  when  Susan  had  requested  Mr.  Adams  to  take 
a  chair,  and  Mr.  Adams  had  inquired  after  Miss  Susan's 
health,  there  ensued  a  pause,  which,  the  longer  it  continued, 
seemed  the  more  difficult  to  break,  and  during  which  Susan's 
pretty  face  slowly  assumed  an  expression  of  the  ludicrous,  till 
she  was  as  near  laughing  as  propriety  would  admit ;  and  Mr. 
Adams,  having  looked  out  at  the  window,  and  up  at  the  man- 
tel-piecc,  and  down  at  the  carpet,  at  last  looked  at  Susan; 
their  eyes  met;  the  effect  was  electrical;  they  both  smiled, 
and  then  laughed  outright,  after  which  the  whole  difficulty  of 
conversation  vanished. 

"Susan,"  said  Joseph,  "do  you  remember  the  old  school 
house?" 

M  I  thought  that  was  what  you  were  thinking  of,"  said  Su- 
shi ;  4>  but,  really,  you  have  grown  and  altered  so  that  I  could 
hardly  believe  my  eyes  last  night." 

u  Nor  I  mine,"  -aid  Joseph,  with  a  glance  that  gave  a  very 
complimentary  turn  to  the  expression. 

Our  readers  may  imagine  that  after  this  the  conversation 


love  versus  LAW.  67 

proceeded  to  grow  increasingly  confidential  and  interesting; 
that  from  the  account  of  early  life,  each  proceeded  to  let  the 
other  know  something  of  intervening  history,  in  the  course 
of  which  each  discovered  a  number  of  new  and  admirable 
traits  in  the  other,  such  things  being  matters  of  very  common 
occurrence.  In  the  course  of  the  conversation  Joseph  discov- 
ered that  it  was  necessary  that  Susan  should  have  two  or 
three  books  then  in  his  possession  ;  and  as  promptitude  is  a 
great  matter  in  such  cases,  he  promised  to  bring  them  "  to- 
morrow." 

For  some  time  our  young  friends  pursued  their  acquaint- 
ance without  a  distinct  consciousness  of  any  thing  except  that 
it  was  a  very  pleasant  thing  to  be  together.  During  the  long, 
still  afternoons,  they  rambled  among  the  fading  woods,  now 
illuminated  with  the  radiance  of  the  dying  year,  and  senti- 
mentalized and  quoted  poetry ;  and  almost  every  evening 
Joseph  found  some  errand  to  bring  him  to  the  house ;  a  book 
for  Miss  Susan,  or  a  bundle  of  roots  and  herbs  for  Miss  Silence, 
or  some  remarkably  fine  yarn  for  her  to  knit  —  attentions 
which  retained  our  hero  in  the  good  graces  of  the  latter  lady, 
and  gained  him  the  credit  of  being  "  a  young  man  that  knew 
how  to  behave  himself."  As  Susan  was  a  leading  member  in 
the  village  choir,  our  hero  was  directly  attacked  with  a  vio- 
lent passion  for  sacred  music,  which  brought  him  punctually 
to  the  singing  school,  where  the  young  people  came  together 
to  sing  anthems  and  fuguing  tunes,  and  to  eat  apples  and 
chestnuts. 

It  cannot  be  supposed  that  all  these  things  passed  unnoticed 
by  those  wakeful  eyes  that  are  ever  upon  the  motions  of  such 
"  bright,  particular  stars ; "  and  as  is  usual  in  such  cases,  many 
things  were  known  to  a  certainty  which  were  not  yet  known 


G8  love  versus  law. 

to  the  parties  themselves.  The  young  belles  and  beaux  whis- 
pered and  tittered,  and  passed  the  original  jokes  and  witti- 
cisms common  in  such  cases,  while  the  old  ladies  soberly  took 
the  matter  in  hand  when  they  went  out  with  their  knitting  to 
make  afternoon  visits,  considering  how  much  money  Uncle 
Jaw  had,  how  much  his  son  would  have,  and  what  all  together 
would  come  to,  and  whether  Joseph  would  be  a  "  smart  man," 
and  Susan  a  good  housekeeper,  with  all  the  "  ifs,  ands,  and 
bats"  of  married  life. 

But   the    most   fearful  wonders    and   prognostics    crowded 
around  the  point  "  what  Uncle  Jaw  would  have  to  say  to  the 
matter."     His  lawsuit  with  the  sisters  being  well  understood, 
as  there  was  every  reason  it  should  be,  it  was  surmised  what 
two  such  vigorous  belligerents  as  himself  and  Miss  Silence 
would  say  to  the  prospect  of  a  matrimonial  conjunction.     It 
was  also  reported  that  Deacon  Enos  Dudley  had  a  claim  to 
the  land  which  constituted  the  finest  part  of  Susan's  portion, 
the  loss  of  which  would  render  the  consent  of  Uncle  Jaw  still 
more  doubtful.     But  all  this  while  Miss  Silence  knew  nothing 
of  the  matter,  for  her  habit  of  considering  and  treating  Susan 
as   a  child   seemed  to  gain  strength  with  time.     Susan  was 
always  to  be  seen  to,  and  watched,  and  instructed,  and  taught ; 
and  Miss  Silence  could  not  conceive  that  one  who  could  not 
even  make  pickles,  without  her  to  oversee,  could  think  of  such 
a  matter  as  setting  up  housekeeping  on  her  own  account.     To 
uri -.  Bhe  began  to  observe  an  extraordinary  change  in  her 
!■ :  remarked  thai  -lately  Susan  seemed  to  be  getting  sort 
o'  crazy-headed  ;"  thai  Bhe  seemed  not  to  have  any  "faculty" 
for  any  thing;  thai  she  had  made  gingerbread  twice,  and  for- 
got the  ginger  one  tine  and  put  in  mustard  the  other ;  that 
she  shook  the  saltcellar  oul  in  the  tablecloth,  and  let  the  cat 


love  versus  law.  69 

into  the  pantry  half  a  dozen  times  ;  and  that  when  scolded  for 
these  sins  of  omission  or  commission,  she  had  a  fit  of  crying, 
and  did  a  little  worse  than  before.  Silence  was  of  opinion 
that  Susan  was  getting  to  be  "weakly  and  naarvy,"  and  actu- 
ally concocted  an  unmerciful  pitcher  of  wormwood  and  bone- 
set,  which  she  said  was  to  keep  off  the  "  shaking  weakness  " 
that  was  coming  over  her.  In  vain  poor  Susan  protested  that 
she  was  well  enough ;  Miss  Silence  knew  better ;  and  one  even- 
ing she  entertained  Mr.  Joseph  Adams  with  a  long  statement 
of  the  case  in  all  its  bearings,  and  ended  with  demanding  his 
opinion,  as  a  candid  listener,  whether  the  wormwood  and 
boneset  sentence  should  not  be  executed. 

Poor  Susan  had  that  very  afternoon  parted  from  a  knot  of 
young  friends  who  had  teased  her  most  unmercifully  on  the 
score  of  attentions  received,  till  she  began  to  think  the  very 
leaves  and  stones  were  so  many  eyes  to  pry  into  her  secret 
feelings ;  and  then  to  have  the  whole  case  set  in  order  before 
the  very  person,  too,  whom  she  most  dreaded.  "  Certainly 
he  would  think  she  was  acting  like  a  fool ;  perhaps  he  did  not 
mean  any  thing  more  than  friendship,  after  all ;  and  she  would 
not  for  the  world  have  him  suppose  that  she  cared  a  copper 
more  for  him  than  for  any  other  friend,  or  that  she  was  in 
love,  of  all  things."  So  she  sat  very  busy  with  her  knitting 
work,  scarcely  knowing  what  she  was  about,  till  Silence 
called  out,  — 

'•  Why,  Susan,  what  a  piece  of  work  you  are  making  of  that 
stocking  heel !     What  in  the  world  are  you  doing  to  it  ?  " 

Susan  dropped  her  knitting,  and  making  some  pettish  an- 
swer, escaped  out  of  the  room. 

"  Now,  did  you  ever  ?  "  said  Silence,  laying  down  the  seam 


70  love  versus  law. 

she  had  been  cross-stitching ;  "  what  is  the  matter  with  her, 

Mr.  Adams?" 

"Miss  Susan  is  certainly  indisposed,"  replied  our  hero 
gravely.    "  I  must  get  her  to  take  your  advice,  Miss  Silence." 

Our  hero  followed  Susan  to  the  front  door,  where  she  stood 
looking  out  at  the  moon,  and  begged  to  know  what  distressed 
her. 

Of  course  it  was  "  nothing,"  the  young  lady's  usual  com- 
plaint when  in  low  spirits ;  and  to  show  that  she  was  perfectly 
easy,  she  began  an  unsparing  attack  on  a  wThite  rosebush 
near  by. 

«  Susan!"  said  Joseph,  laying  his  hand  on  hers,  and  in  a 
tone  that  made  her  start.  She  shook  back  her  curls,  and 
looked  up  to  him  with  such  an  innocent,  confiding  face  ! 

Ah,  my  good  reader,  you  may  go  on  with  this  part  of  the 

Btory  l'»r  yourself.     We  are  principled  against  unveiling  the 

"sacred   mysteries,"  the  "thoughts  that  breathe  and  words 

that  burn,"  in  such  little  moonlight  interviews  as  these.     You 

may  (ancy  all  that  followed;  and  we  can  only  assure  all  who 

are  doubtful,  that,  under  judicious  management,  cases  of  this 

kind  may  be  disposed  of  without  wormwood  or  boneset.     Our 

hero  and   heroine  were  called  to  sublunary  realities  by  the 

voice  of  Miss  Silence,  who  came  into  the  passage  to  see  what 

\\}u,n  earth  they  were  doing.     That  lady  was  satisfied  by  the 

representations  of  so  friendly  and  learned  a  young  man  as 

ph   that  nothing  immediately  alarming  was  to  be  appre- 

'd  in  the  case  of  Susan;  and  she  retired.     From  that 

•  pped    about    with    a   heart   many  pounds 

lighter  than  before. 

u  I'll  tell  you  what,  Joseph,"  said  Uncle  Jaw,  "I'll  tell  you 


love  versus  law.  71 

what,  now :  I  hear  'em  tell  that  you've  took  and  courted  that 
'ere  Susan  Jones.     Now,  I  jest  want  to  know  if  it's  true." 

There  was  an  explicitness  about  this  mode  of  inquiry  that 
took  our  hero  quite  by  surprise,  so  that  he  could  only  reply, — 

"  Why,  sir,  supposing  I  had,  would  there  be  any  objection 
to  it  in  your  mind  ?  " 

"  Don't  talk  to  me,"  said  Uncle  Jaw.  "  I  jest  want  to  know 
if  it's  true." 

Our  hero  put  his  hands  in  his  pockets,  walked  to  the  win- 
dow, and  whistled. 

"'Cause  if  you  have,"  said  Uncle  Jaw,  "you  may  jest  un- 
court  as  fast  as  you  can  ;  for  'Squire  Jones's  daughter  won't 
get  a  single  cent  of  my  money,  I  can  tell  you  that." 

"  Why,  father,  Susan  Jones  is  not  to  blame  for  any  thing 
that  her  father  did ;  and  I'm  sure  she  is  a  pretty  girl 
enough." 

"  I  don't  care  if  she  is  pretty.  What's  that  to  me  ?  I've 
got  you  through  college,  Joseph  ;  and  a  hard  time  I've  had 
of  it,  a-delvin'  and  slavin' ;  and  here  you  come,  and  the  very 
first  thing  you  do  you  must  take  and  court  that  'ere  'Squire 
Jones's  daughter,  who  was  always  putting  himself  up  above  me. 
Besides,  I  mean  to  have  the  law  on  that  estate  yet ;  and  Dea- 
con Dudley,  he  will  have  the  law,  too ;  and  it  will  cut  off 
the  best  piece  of  land  the  girl  has ;  and  when  you  get  mar- 
ried, I  mean  you  shall  have  something.  It's  jest  "a  trick  of 
them  gals  at  me  ;  but  I  guess  I'll  come  up  with  'em  yet.  I'm 
just  a-goin*  down  to  have  a  '  regular  hash '  with  old  Silence, 
to  let  her  know  she  can't  come  round  me  that  way." 

"  Silence,"  said  Susan,  drawing  her  head  into  the  window, 
and  looking  apprehensive,  "  there  is  Mr.  Adams  coming  here." 
"  What,  Joe  Adams  ?     Well,  and  what  if  he  is  ? "' 


72  love  versus  law. 

u  Xo,  no,  sister,  but  it  is  his  father  —  it  is  Uncle  Jaw." 

"Well,  B'pose  'tis,  child  —  what  scares  you?  S'pose  I'm 
afraid  of  him  ?  If  he  wants  more  than  I  gave  him  last  time, 
1*11  put  it  on."  So  saying,  Miss  Silence  took  her  knitting 
work  and  marched  down  into  the  sitting  room,  and  sat  herself 
bolt  uprighl  in  an  attitude  of  defiance,  while  poor  Susan,  feel- 
ing her  li<  art  beat  unaccountably  fast,  glided  out  of  the  room. 

"  Well,  good  morning,  Miss  Silence,"  said  Uncle  Jaw,  after 
having  scraped  his  feet  on  the  scraper,  and  scrubbed  them  on 
tin-  in.tt  nearly  ten  minutes,  in  silent  deliberation. 

"Morning,  sir,"  said  Silence,  abbreviating  the  "good." 

Uncle  Jaw  helped  himself  to  a  chair  directly  in  front  of  the 
enemy,  dropped  his  hat  on  the  floor,  and  surveyed  Miss  Si- 
lence  with  a  dogged  air  of  satisfaction,  like  one  who  is  sitting 
down  to  a  regular,  comfortable  quarrel,  and  means  to  make 
the  most  of  it. 

Miss  Silence  tossed  her  head  disdainfully,  but  scorned  to 
commence  hostilities. 

"So,  Miss  Silence,"  said  Uncle  Jaw,  deliberately,  "you 
don't  think  you'll  do  any  thing  about  that  'ere  matter." 

"What  matter?"  said  Silence,  with  an  intonation  resem- 
bling that  of  a  roasted  chestnut  when  it  bursts  from  the  fire. 

"  I  really  thought,  Miss  Silence,  in  that  'ere  talk  I  had  with 
you  about  'Squire  Jones's  eheatin'  about  that  'ere " 

••  .Mr.  Adams,"  Baid  Silence,  "I  tell  you,  to  begin  with,  I'm 
not  a  going  to  be  sauced  in  this  'ere  Avay  by  you.  You  hain't 
got  common  decency,  nor  common  sense,  nor  common  any 
thing  else,  to  talk  so  to  me  about  my  father;  I  won't  bear  it, 
I  tell  you." 

'•Why.  Miss  Jones,"  said  Uncle  Jaw,  "how  you  talk! 
Well,  to  be  BUre,  'Squire  Jones  is  dead  and   gone,  and  it's 


love  versus  law.  73 

as  well  not  to  call  it  cheatin',  as  I  was  tellin'  Deacon  Enos 
when  he  was  talking  about  that  'ere  lot  —  that  'ere  lot, 
you  know,  that  he  sold  the  deacon,  and  never  let  him  have 
the  deed  on't" 

"  That's  a  lie,"  said  Silence,  starting  on  her  feet ;  "  that's  an 
up  and  down  black  lie  !  I  tell  you  that,  now,  before  you  say 
another  word." 

"Miss  Silence,  railly,  you  seem  to  be  getting  touchy,"  said 
Uncle  Jaw ;  "  well,  to  be  sure,  if  the  deacon  can  let  that  pass, 
other  folks  can  ;  and  maybe  the  deacon  will,  because  'Squire 
Jones  was  a  church  member,  and  the  deacon  is  'mazin'  tender 
about  bringin'  out  any  thing  against  professors  ;  but  railly, 
now,  Miss  Silence,  I  didn't  think  you  and  Susan  were  going  to 
work  it  so  cunning  in  this  here  way." 

"  I  don't  know  what  you  mean,  and,  what's  more,  I  don't 
care,"  said  Silence,  resuming  her  work,  and  calling  back  the 
bolt-upright  dignity  with  which  she  began. 

There  was  a  pause  of  some  moments,  during  which  the 
features  of  Silence  worked  with  suppressed  rage,  which  was 
contemplated  by  Uncle  Jaw  with  undisguised  satisfaction. 

"  You  see,  I  s'pose,  I  shouldn't  a  minded  your  Susan's  set- 
ting out  to  court  up  my  Joe,  if  it  hadn't  a  been  for  them 
things." 

"  Courting  your  son  !  Mr.  Adams,  I  should  like  to  know 
what  you  mean  by  that.  I'm  sure  nobody  wants  your  son, 
though  he's  a  civil,  likely  fellow  enough ;  yet  with  such  an  old 
dragon  for  a  father,  I'll  warrant  he  won't  get  any  body  to 
court  him,  nor  be  courted  by  him  neither." 

"  Railly,  Miss  Silence,  you  ain't  hardly  civil,  now." 

"  Civil !  I  should  like  to  know  who  could  be  civil.  You 
know,  now,  as  well  as  I  do,  that  you  are  saying  all  this  out  of 
7 


74  love  versus  LAW. 

clear,  sheer  ugliness  ;  and  that's  what  you  keep  a  doing  all 
round  the  neighborhood." 

«  Miss  Silence,"  said  Uncle  Jaw,  "  I  don't  want  no  hard 
words  with  you.  It's  pretty  much  known  round  the  neighbor- 
hood that  your  Susan  thinks  she'll  get  my  Joe,  and  I  s'pose 
you  was  thinking  that  perhaps  it  would  be  the  best  way  of 
settling  up  matters ;  but  you  see,  now,  I  took  and  tell'd  my 
son  I  railly  didn't  see  as  I  could  afford  it ;  I  took  and  tell'd 
him  that  young  folks  must  have  something  considerable  to 
start  with  ;  and  that,  if  Susan  lost  that  'ere  piece  of  ground, 
as  is  likely  she  will,  it  would  be  cutting  off  quite  too  much  of 
a  piece  ;  so,  you  see,  I  don't  want  you  to  take  no  encourage- 
ment about  that." 

"Well,  I  think  this  is  pretty  well!"  exclaimed  Silence, 
provoked  beyond  measure  or  endurance  ;  "  you  old  torment ! 
think  I  don't  know  what  you're  at!  I  and  Susan  courting 
your  son  ?  I  wonder  if  you  ain't  ashamed  of  yourself,  now  ! 
I  should  like  to  know  what  I  or  she  have  done,  now,  to  get 
that  notion  into  your  head  ?" 

"  I  didn't  s'pose  you  'spected  to  get  him  yourself,"  said 
Uncle  Jaw,  "  for  I  guess  by  this  time  you've  pretty  much  gin 
up  trying,  hain't  ye  ?     But  Susan  does,  I'm  pretty  sure." 

"Here,  Susan!  Susan!  you — -come  down!"  called  Miss 
Silence,  in  great  wrath,  throwing  open  the  chamber  door. 
"  Mr.  Adams  wants  to  speak  with  you."  Susan,  fluttering 
and  agitated,  slowly  descended  into  the  room,  where  she 
stopped,  and  looked  hesitatingly,  first  at  Uncle  Jaw  and  then 
at  her  Bister,  who,  without  ceremony,  proposed  the  subject 
matter  of  the  interview  as  follows:  — 

11  Now,  Susan,  here's  this  man  pretends  to  say  that  you've 
been  a  courting  and  snaring  to  get  his   son;  and  I  just  want 


love  versus  latt.  75 

you  to  tell  him  that  you  hain't  never  had  no  thought  of  him, 
and  that  you  won't  have,  neither." 

This  considerate  way  of  announcing  the  subject  had  the 
effect  of  bringing  the  burning  color  into  Susan's  face,  as 
she  stood  like  a  convicted  culprit,  with  her  eyes  bent  on  the 
floor. 

Uncle  Jaw,  savage  as  he  was,  was  always  moved  by  female 
loveliness,  as  wild  beasts  are  said  to  be  mysteriously  swayed 
by  music,  and  looked  on  the  beautiful,  downcast  face  with 
more  softening  than  Miss  Silence,  who,  provoked  that  Susan 
did  not  immediately  respond  to  the  question,  seized  her  by  the 
arm,  and  eagerly  reiterated,  — 

"  Susan  !  why  don't  you  speak,  child  ?  " 

Gathering  desperate  courage,  Susan  shook  off  the  hand  of 
Silence,  and  straightened  herself  up  with  as  much  dignity  as 
some  little  flower  lifts  up  its  head  when  it  has  been  bent  down 
by  rain  drops. 

"  Silence,"  she  said,  "  I  never  would  have  come  down  if  I 
had  thought  it  was  to  hear  such  things  as  this.  Mr.  Adams, 
all  I  have  to  say  to  you  is,  that  your  son  has  sought  me,  and 
not  I  your  son.  If  you  wish  to  know  any  more,  he  can  tell 
you  better  than  I." 

"  Well,  I  vow  !  she  is  a  pretty  gal,"  said  Uncle  Jaw,  as 
Susan  shut  the  door. 

This  exclamation  was  involuntary  ;  then  recollecting  him- 
self, he  picked  up  his  hat,  and  saying,  "  Well,  I  guess  I  may 
as  well  get  along  hum,"  he  began  to  depart ;  but  turning 
round  before  he  shut  the  door,  he  said,  "  Miss  Silence,  if  you 
should  conclude  to  do  any  thing  about  that  'ere  fence,  just 
send  word  over  and  let  me  know." 

Silence,  without  deigning  any  reply,  marched  up  into  Su- 


7G  love  versus  law. 

san's  little  chamber,  where  our  heroine  was  treating  resolution 
to  a  good  lit  of  crying. 

"  Susan,  I  did  not  think  you  had  been  such  a  fool,"  said  the 
lady.  "  I  do  want  to  know,  now,  if  you've  railly  been  think- 
ing of  getting  married,  and  to  that  Joe  Adams  of  all  folks ! " 

Poor  Susan  !  such  an  interlude  in  all  her  pretty,  romantic 
little  dreams  about  kindred  feelings  and  a  hundred  other  de- 
lightful ideas,  that  flutter  like  singing  birds  through  the  miry 
land  of  first  love.  Such  an  interlude  !  to  be  called  on  by 
gruff  human  voices  to  give  up  all  the  cherished  secrets  that 
she  had  trembled  to  whisper  even  to  herself.  She  felt  as  if 
love  itself  had  been  defiled  by  the  coarse,  rough  hands  that 
had  been  meddling  with  it ;  so  to  her  sister's  soothing  address 
Susan  made  no  answer,  only  to  cry  and  sob  still  more  bitterly 
than  before. 

Miss  Silence,  if  she  had  a  great  stout  heart,  had  no  less  a 
kind  one,  and  seeing  Susan  take  the  matter  so  bitterly  to  heart, 
she  began  gradually  to  subside. 

u  Susan,  you  poor  little  fool,  you,"  said  she,  at  the  same 
time  giving  her  a  hearty  slap,  as  expressive  of  earnest  sym- 
pathy, "  I  really  do  feel  for  you  ;  that  good-for-nothing  fellow 
has  been  a  cheatin'  you,  I  do  believe." 

"  O,  don't  talk  any  more  about  it,  for  mercy's  sake,"  said 
Susan  ;  "  I  am  sick  of  the  whole  of  it." 

"That's  you,  Susan  !  Glad  to  hear  you  say  so!  I'll  stand 
up  for  you,  Susan  ;  if  I  catch  Joe  Adams  coming  here  again 
with  his  palavering  lace.  Til  let  him  know  !" 

M  N<>,  no  !  Don't,  for  mercy's  sake,  say  any  thing  to  Mr. 
Adams  -  don'l  !  " 

M  Well,  child,  don't  claw  hold  of  a  body  so  !  Well,  at  any 
rate.  111  jut  let  Joe  Adams  know  that  we  hain't  nothing  more 
to  say  to  him." 


loye  versus  law.  77 

"  But  I  don't  wish  to  say  that  —  that  is  —  I  don't  know  — 
indeed,  sister  Silence,  don't  say  any  thing  about  it." 

"  Why  not  ?'  You  ain't  such  a  natural,  now,  as  to  want  to 
marry  him,  after  all,  hey?" 

"  I  don't  know  what  I  want,  nor  what  I  don't  want ;  only, 
Silence,  do  now,  if  you  love  me,  do  promise  not  to  say  any 
thing  at  all  to  Mr.  Adams  —  don't." 

"  Well,  then,  I  won't,"  said  Silence ;  "  but,  Susan,  if  you 
railly  was  in  love  all  this  while,  why  hain't  you  been  and  told 
me  ?  Don't  you  know  that  I'm  as  much  as  a  mother  to  you, 
and  you.  ought  to  have  told  me  in  the  beginning?  " 

"  I  don't  know,  Silence  !  I  couldn't  —  I  don't  want  to  talk 
about  it." 

"  Well,  Susan,  you  ain't  a  bit  like  me,"  said  Silence — a  re- 
mark evincing  great  discrimination,  certainly,  and  with  which 
the  conversation  terminated. 

That  very  evening  our  friend  Joseph  walked  down  towards 
the  dwelling  of  the  sisters,  not  without  some  anxiety  for  the 
result,  for  he  knew  by  his  father's  satisfied  appearance  that 
war  had  been  declared.  He  walked  into  the  family  room, 
and  found  nobody  there  but  Miss  Silence,  who  was  sitting, 
grim  as  an  Egyptian  sphinx,  stitching  very  vigorously  on -  a 
meal  bag,  in  which  interesting  employment  she  thought  proper 
to  be  so  much  engaged  as  not  to  remark  the  entrance  of  our 
hero.  To  Joseph's  accustomed  "  Good  evening,  Miss  Si- 
lence," she  replied  merely  by  looking  up  with  a  cold  nod,  and 
went  on  with  her  sewing.  It  appeared  that  she  had  deter- 
mined on  a  literal  version  of  her  promise  not  to  say  any  thing 
to  Mr.  Adams. 

Our  hero,  as  we  have  before  siated,  was  familiar  with  the 
crooks  and  turns  of  the  female  mind,  and  mentally  resolved  to 
T 


78  love  versus  LATV. 

put  a  bold  face  on  the  matter,  and  give  Miss  Silence  no  en- 
couragement in  her  attempt  to  make  him  feel  himself  unwel- 
come. It  was  rather  a  frosty  autumnal  evening,  and  the  fire 
on  the  hearth  was  decaying.  Mr.  Joseph  bustled  about  most 
energetically,  throwing  down  the  tongs,  and  shovel,  and  bel- 
lows, while  he  pulled  the  fire  to  pieces,  raked  out  ashes  and 
brands,  and  then,  in  a  twinkling,  was  at  the  woodpile,  from 
whence  he  selected  a  massive  backlog  and  forestick,  with  ac- 
companiments, which  were  soon  roaring  and  crackling  in  the 
chimney. 

ta  There,  now,  that  does  look  something  like  comfort,"  said 
our  hero ;  and  drawing  forward  the  big  rocking  chair,  he 
seated  himself  in  it,  and  rubbed  his  hands  with  an  air  of 
great  complacency.  Miss  Silence  looked  not  up,  but  stitched 
so  much  the  faster,  so  that  one  might  distinctly  hear  the  crack 
of  the  needle  and  the  whistle  of  the  thread  all  over  the  apart- 
ment. 

u  I  lave  you  a  headache  to-night,  Miss  Silence  ?  " 

u  No  !  "  was  the  gruff  answer. 

"  Are  you  in  a  hurry  about  those  bags  ?  "  said  he,  glancing 
at  a  pile  of  unmade  ones  which  lay  by  her  side. 

No  reply.  "  Hang  it  all !"  said  our  hero  to  himself,  "I'll 
make  her  speak." 

Miss  Silence's  needle  book  and  brown  thread  lay  on  a  chair 

beside  her.     Our  friend  helped  himself  to  a  needle  and  thread, 

and  taking  one  of  the  bags,  planted  himself  bolt  upright  oppo- 

to   Miss  Silence,  and  pinning  his  work  to  his  knee,  com- 

menced  Btitching  at  a  rate  fully  ecpial  to  her  own. 

Mi-  Silence  looked  up  and  fidgeted,  but  went  on  with  her 
work  faster  than  before  ;  but  the  faster  she  worked,  the  faster 
and  steadier  worked   our  hero,  all  in  "marvellous  silence." 


love  versus  la"W.  70 

There  began  to  be  an  odd  twitching  about  the  muscles  of  Miss 
Silence's  face  ;  our  hero  took  no  notice,  having  pursed  his 
features  into  an  expression  of  unexampled  gravity,  which  only 
grew  more  intense  as  he  perceived,  by  certain  uneasy  move- 
ments, that  the  adversary  was  beginning  to  waver. 

As  they  were  sitting,  stitching  away,  their  needles  whizzing 
at  each  other  like  a  couple  of  locomotives  engaged  in  conver- 
sation, Susan  opened  the  door. 

The  poor  child  had  been  crying  for  the  greater  part  of  her 
spare  time  during  the  day,  and  was  in  no  very  merry  humor ; 
but  the  moment  that  her  astonished  eyes  comprehended  the 
scene,  she  burst  into  a  fit  of  almost  inextinguishable  merri- 
ment, while  Silence  laid  down  her  needle,  and  looked  half 
amused  and  half  angry.  Our  hero,  however,  continued  his 
business*  with  inflexible  perseverance,  unpinning  his  work 
and  moving  the  seam  along,  and  going  on  with  increased 
velocity. 

Poor  Miss  Silence  was  at  length  vanquished,  and  joined  \a 
the  loud  laugh  which  seemed  to  convulse  her  sister.  Where- 
upon our  hero  unpinned  his  work,  and  folding  it  up,  looked  up 
at  her  with  all  the  assurance  of  impudence  triumphant,  and 
remarked  to  Susan,  — 

"  Your  sister  had  such  a  pile  of  these  pillow  cases  to  make, 
that  she  was  quite  discouraged,  and  engaged  me  to  do  half 
a  dozen  of  them :  when  I  first  came  in  she  was  so  busy  she 
could  not  even  speak  to  me." 

"  Well,  if  you  ain't  the  beater  for  impudence  !  "  said  Miss 
Silence. 

"The  beater  for  industry  —  so  I  thought,"  rejoined  our 
hero. 

Susan,  who  had  been  in  a  highly  tragical  state  of  mind  all 


80  love  versus  law. 

day,  and  who  was  meditating  on  nothing  less  sublime  than  an 
eternal  separation  from  her  lover,  which  she  had  imagined, 
with  all  the  affecting  attendants  and  consequents,  was  entirely 
revolutionized  by  the  unexpected  turn  thus  given  to  her  ideas, 
while  our  hero  pursued  the  opportunity  he  had  made  for  him- 
self, and  exerted  his  powers  of  entertainment  to  the  utmost, 
till  Miss  Silence,  declaring  that  if  she  had  been  washing  all 
day  she  should  not  have  been  more  tired  than  she  was  with 
laughing,  took  up  her  candle,  and  good-naturedly  left  our 
young  people  to  settle  matters  between  themselves.  There 
was  a  grave  pause  of  some  length  when  she  had  departed, 
which  was  broken  by  our  hero,  who,  seating  himself  by  Susan, 
inquired  very  seriously  if  his  father  had  made  proposals  of 
marriage  to  Miss  Silence  that  morning. 

"  No,  you  provoking  creature !  "  said  Susan,  at  the  same 
time  laughing  at  the  absurdity  of  the  idea. 

"  Well,  now,  don't  draw  on  your  long  face  again,  Susan," 
said  Joseph  ;  "you  have  been  trying  to  lengthen  it  down  all 
the  evening,  if  I  would  have  let  you.  Seriously,  now,  I  know 
that  something  painful  passed  between  my  father  and  you  this 
morning,  but  I  shall  not  inquire  what  it  was.  I  only  tell  you, 
frankly,  that  lie  has  expressed  his  disapprobation  of  our  en- 
gagement, forbidden  me  to  go  on  with  it,  and " 

"  And,  consequently,  I  release  you  from  all  engagements 
and  obligations  to  me,  even  before  you  ask  it,"  said  Susan. 

M  You  are  extremely  accommodating,"  replied  Joseph;  "but 
I  cannot  promise  t<>  !»<■  as  obliging  in  giving  up  certain  prom- 
ises made  to  me,  unless,  indeed,  the  feelings  that  dictated  them 
should  have  changed." 

"  0,  no  —  no,  indeed,"  said  Susan,  earnestly  ;  "you  know  it 
is  not  that ;  but  if  your  father  objects  to  me " 


love  versus  law.  81 

"  If  my  father  objects  to  you,  he  is  welcome  not  to  marry 
you,"  said  Joseph. 

"  Now,  Joseph,  do  be  serious,"  said  Susan. 

"  Well,  then,  seriously,  Susan,  I  know  my  obligations  to  my 
father,  and  in  all  that  relates  to  his  comfort  I  will  ever  be 
dutiful  and  submissive,  for  I  have  no  college  boy  pride  on  the 
subject  of  submission  ;  but  in  a  matter  so  individually  my  own 
as  the  choice  of  a  wife,  in  a  matter  that  will  most  likely 
affect  my  happiness  years  and  years  after  he  has  ceased  to  be, 
I  hold  that  I  have  a  right  to  consult  my  own  inclinations,  and, 
by  your  leave,  my  dear  little  lady,  I  shall  take  that  liberty." 

"  But,  then,  if  your  father  is  made  angry,  you  know  what 
sort  of  a  man  he  is ;  and  how  could  I  stand  in  the  way  of  all 
your  prospects  ?  " 

"  Why,  my  dear  Susan,  do  you  think  I  count  myself  de- 
pendent upon  my  father,  like  the  heir  of  an  English  estate, 
who  has  nothing  to  do  but  sit  still  and  wait  for  money  to  come 
to  him  ?  No  !  I  have  energy  and  education  to  start  with, 
and  if  I  cannot  take  care  of  myself,  and  you  too,  then  cast  me 
off  and  welcome ; "  and,  as  Joseph  spoke,  his  fine  face  glowed 
with  a  conscious  power,  which  unfettered  youth  never  feels  so 
fully  as  in  America.  He  paused  a  moment,  and  resumed : 
"  Nevertheless,  Susan,  I  respect  my  father  ;  whatever  others 
may  say  of  him,  I  shall  never  forget  that  I  owe  to  his  hard 
earnings  the  education  that  enables  me  to  do  or  be  any  thing, 
and  I  shall  not  wantonly  or  rudely  cross  him.  I  do  not  de- 
spair of  gaining  his  consent ;  my  father  has  a  great  partiality 
for  pretty  girls,  and  if  his  love  of  contradiction  is  not  kept 
awake  by  open  argument,  I  will  trust  to  time  and  you  to  bring 
him  round  ;  but,  whatever  comes,  rest  assured,  my  dearest 
one,  I  have  chosen  for  life,  and  cannot  change." 


g2  love   versus  law. 

The  conversation,  after  this,  took  a  turn  which  may  readily 
be  imagined  by  all  who  have  been  in  the  same  situation,  and 
will,  therefore,  need  no  further  illustration. 


"Well,  deacon,  railly  I  don't  know  what  to  think  now: 
there's  my  Joe,  he's  took  and  been  a  courting  that  'ere  Susan," 
said  Uncle  Jaw. 

Thia  was  the  introduction  to  one  of  Uncle  Jaw's  periodical 
visits  to  Deacon  Enos,  who  was  sitting  with  his  usual  air  of 
mild  abstraction,  looking  into  the  coals  of  a  bright  November 
fire,  while  his  busy  helpmate  was  industriously  rattling  her 
knitting  needles  by  his  side. 

A  close  observer  might  have  suspected  that  this  was  no 
news  to  the  good  deacon,  who  had  given  a  great  deal  of  good 
advice,  in  private,  to  Master  Joseph  of  late  ;  but  he  only  re- 
lax.<1  his  features  into  a  quiet  smile,  and  ejaculated,  "  I  want 
to  know  !  " 

"  Yes ;  and  railly,  deacon,  that  'ere  gal  is  a  rail  pretty  un. 
I  was  a  tellin'  my  folks  that  our  new  minister's  wife  was  a 
fool  to  her." 

"  And  so  your  son  is  going  to  marry  her  ?  "  said  the  good 
lady  ;  "  I  knew  that  long  ago." 

M  Well  —  no  —  not  so  fast ;  ye  see  there's  two  to  that  bar- 
gain \<t.  You  see,  Joe,  he  never  said  a  word  to  me,  but  took 
and  courted  the  gal  out  of  his  own  head;  and  when  I  come  to 
know,  >ay-*  I,  'Joe,'  says  I,  '  that  'ere  gal  won't  do  for  me;' 
and  I  took  and  tell'd  him,  then,  about  that  'ere  old  fence,  and 
all  aboul  that  old  mill,  and  them  medders  of  mine ;  and  I  tell'd 
him,  too,  about  that  'ere.  lot  of  Susan's  ;  and  I  should  like  to 
know,  now,  deacon,  how  that  lot  business  is  a  going  to  turn 
out." 


LOVE   versus   law.  83 

"  Judge  Smith  and  'Squire  Moseley  say  that  my  claim  to  it 
will  stand,"  said  the  deacon. 

"They  do?"  said  Uncle  Jaw,  with  much  satisfaction; 
"  s'pose,  then,  you'll  sue,  won't  you  ?  " 

"  I  don't  know,"  replied  the  deacon,  meditatively. 

Uncle  Jaw  was  thoroughly  amazed  ;  that  any  one  should 
have  doubts  about  entering  suit  for  a  fine  piece  of  land,  when 
sure  of  obtaining  it,  was  a  problem  quite  beyond  his  powers 
of  solving. 

"  You  say  your  son  has  courted  the  girl,"  said  the  deacon, 
after  a  long  pause  ;  "  that  strip  of  land  is  the  best  part  of 
Susan's  share  ;  I  paid  down  five  hundred  dollars  on  the  nail 
for  it ;  I've  got  papers  here  that  Judge  Smith  and  'Squire 
Moseley  say  will  stand  good  in  any  court  of  law." 

Uncle  Jaw  pricked  up  his  ears  and  was  all  attention,  eying 
with  eager  looks  the  packet ;  but,  to  his  disappointment,  the 
deacon  deliberately  laid  it  into  his  desk,  shut  and  locked  it, 
and  resumed  his  seat. 

"  Now,  railly,"  said  Uncle  Jaw,  "  I  should  like  to  know  the 
particulars." 

"  Well,  well,"  said  the  deacon,  "  the  lawyers  will  be  at  my 
house  to-morrow  evening,  and  if  you  have  any  concern  about 
it,  you  may  as  well  come  along." 

Uncle  Jaw  wondered  all  the  way  home  at  what  he  could 
have  done  to  get  himself  into  the  confidence  of  the  old  dea- 
con, who,  he  rejoiced  to  think,  was  a  going  to  "  take  "  and  go 
to  law  like  other  folks. 

The  next  day  there  was  an  appearance  of  some  bustle  and 
preparation  about  the  deacon's  house ;  the  best  room  was 
opened  and  aired ;  an  ovenful  of  cake  was  baked  ;  and  our 
friend  Joseph,  with  a  face  full  of  business,  was  seen  passing  to 


84  love  versus  law. 

and  fro,  in  and  out  of  the  Louse,  from  various  closetings  with 
the  deacon.  The  de  -on's  lady  bustled  about  the  house  with 
an  air  of  wonderful  mystery,  and  even  gave  her  directions 
about  eggs  and  raisins  in  a  whisper,  lest  they  should  possibly 
let  out  some  eventful  secret. 

Tlic  afternoon  of  that  day  Joseph  appeared  at  the  house  of 
the  sisters,  stating  that  there  was  to  be  company  at  the  dea- 
con's that  evening,  and  he  was  sent  to  invite  them. 

"  Why,  what's  got  into  the  deacon's  folks  lately,"  said  Si- 
lence, "  to  have  company  so  often  ?  Joe  Adams,  this  'ere  is 
some  '  cut  up  '  of  yours.     Come,  what  are  you  up  to  now  ?  " 

"  Come,  come,  dress  yourselves  and  get  ready,"  said  Joseph ; 
and,  stepping  up  to  Susan,  as  she  was  following  Silence  out 
of  the  room,  he  whispered  something  into  her  ear,  at  which 
she  stopped  short  and  colored  violently. 

"  Why,  Joseph,  what  do  you  mean  ?  " 

"  It  is  so,"  said  he. 

"  No,  no,  Joseph  ;  no,  I  can't,  indeed  I  can't." 

"  But  you  can,  Susan." 

"  0  Joseph,  don't." 

"  0  Susan,  do." 

"  Why,  how  strange,  Joseph  !  " 

"  Come,  come,  my  dear,  you  keep  me  waiting.  If  you  have 
any  objections  on  the  score  of  propriety,  we  will  talk  about 
them  to-morrow  ;"  and  our  hero  looked  so  saucy  and  so  reso- 
lute that  there  was  no  disputing  further;  so,  after  a  little 
more  lingering  and  blushing  on  Susan's  part,  and  a  few  kisses 
and  persuasions  on  the  part  of  the  suitor,  Miss  Susan  seemed 
to  be  brought  to  a  state  of  resignation. 

At  a  table  in  the  middle  of  Uncle  Enos's  north  front  room 
seated  the  two  lawyers,  whose  legal  opinion  was  that 


love  versus  law.  85 

evening  to  be  fully  made  up.  The  younger  of  these,  'Squire 
Moseley,  was  a  rosy,  portly,  laughing  little  bachelor,  who 
boasted  that  he  had  offered  himself,  in  rotation,  to  every 
pretty  girl  within  twenty  miles  round,  and,  among  others,  to  Su- 
san Jones,  notwithstanding  which  he  still  remained  a  bachelor, 
with  a  fair  prospect  of  being  an  old  one ;  but  none  of  these 
things  disturbed  the  boundless  flow  of  good  nature  and  com- 
placency with  which  he  seemed  at  all  times  full  to  overflowing. 
On  the  present  occasion  he  appeared  to  be  particularly  in  his 
element,  as  if  he  had  some  law  business  in  hand  remarkably 
suited  to  his  turn  of  mind ;  for,  on  finishing  the  inspection 
of  the  papers,  he  started  up,  slapped  his  graver  brother  on  the 
back,  made  two  or  three  flourishes  round  the  room,  and  then 
seizing  the  old  deacon's  hand,  shook  it  violently,  exclaiming,  — 

"  All's  right,  deacon,  all's  right !     Go  it !  go  it !  hurrah  !  " 

"When  Uncle  Jaw  entered,  the  deacon,  without  preface, 
handed  him  a  chair  and  the  papers,  saying, — 

"  These  papers  are  what  you  wanted  to  see.  I  just  wish 
you  would  read  them  over." 

Uncle  Jaw  read  them  deliberately  over.  "  Didn't  I  tell  ye 
so,  deacon  ?  The  case  is  as  clear  as  a  bell :  now  ye  will  go  to 
law,  won't  you  ?  " 

"  Look  here,  Mr.  Adams ;  now  you  have  seen  these  papers, 
and  heard  what's  to  be  said,  I'll  make  you  an  offer.  Let  your 
son  marry  Susan  Jones,  and  I'll  burn  these  papers  and  say  no 
more  about  it,  and  there  won't  be  a  girl  in  the  parish  with  a 
finer  portion." 

Uncle  Jaw  opened  his  eyes  with  amazement,  and  looked  at 
the  old  man,  his  mouth  gradually  expanding  wider  and  wider, 
as  if  he  hoped,  in  time,  to  swallow  the  idea. 

"  Well,  now,  I  swan  !  "  at  length  he  ejaculated. 
8 


86  love  versus  law. 

"  I  mean  just  as  I  say,"  said  the  deacon. 

"Why,  that's  the  same  as  giving  the  gal  five  hundred 
dollars  out  of  your  own  pocket,  and  she  ain't  no  relation 
neither." 

•  I  know  it,"  said  the  deacon  ;  "  but  I  have  said  I  will  do  it." 

"  What  upon  'arth  for  ?  "  said  Uncle  Jaw. 

"  To  make  peace,"  said  the  deacon,  "  and  to  let  you  know 
that  when  I  say  it  is  better  to  give  up  one's  rights  than  to 
quarrel,  I  mean  so.  I  am  an  old  man  ;  my  children  are  dead  " 
—  his  voice  faltered  —  "  my  treasures  are  laid  up  in  heaven  ; 
if  I  can  make  the  children  happy,  why,  I  will.  When  I 
thought  I  had  lost  the  land,  I  made  up  my  mind  to  lose  it, 
and  so  I  can  now." 

Uncle  Jaw  looked  fixedly  on  the  old  deacon,  and  said,  — 

"  Well,  deacon,  I  believe  you.  I  vow,  if  you  hain't  got 
something  ahead  in  t'other  world,  I'd  like  to  know  who  has  — 
that's  all ;  so,  if  Joe  has  no  objections,  and  I  rather  guess  he 
won't  have  " 

"  The  short  of  the  matter  is,"  said  the  squire,  "  we'll  have 
a  wedding;  so  come  on;"  and  with  that  he  threw  open  the 
parlor  door,  where  stood  Susan  and  Joseph  in  a  recess  by  the 
window,  while  Silence  and  the  Rev.  Mr.  Bissel  were  drawn 
up  by  the  lire,  and  the  deacon's  lady  wTas  sweeping  up  the 
hearth,  a-  -he  had  been  doing  ever  since  the  party  arrived. 

Instantly  Joseph  took  the  hand  of  Susan,  and  led  her  to  the 
middle  of  the  room;  the  merry  squire  seized  the  hand  of  Miss 
Silence,  and  placed  her  as  bridesmaid,  and  before  any  one 
knew  what  they  were  about,  the  ceremony  was  in  actual  prog- 
.  and  the  minister,  having  been  previously  instructed, 
made  the  two  one  with  extraordinary  celerity. 

"  What  1  what  !  what  I  "  said  Uncle  Jaw.     "  Joseph  !   Dea- 


love  versus  law.  87 

"  Fair  bargain,  sir,"  said  the  squire.  "  Hand  over  your 
papers,  deacon." 

The  deacon  handed  them,  and  the  squire,  having  read  them 
aloud,  proceeded,  with  much  ceremony,  to  throw  them  into 
the  fire ;  after  which,  in  a  mock  solemn  oration,  he  gave  a 
statement  of  the  whole  affair,  and  concluded  with  a  grave  ex- 
hortation to  the  new  couple  on  the  duties  of  wedlock,  which 
unbent  the  risibles  even  of  the  minister  himself. 

Uncle  Jaw  looked  at  his  pretty  daughter-in-law,  who  stood 
half  smiling,  half  blushing,  receiving  the  congratulations  of 
the  party,  and  then  at  Miss  Silence,  who  appeared  full  as  much 
taken  by  surprise  as  himself. 

"  Well,  well,  Miss  Silence,  these  'ere  young  folks  have  come 
round  us  slick  enough,"  said  he.  "  I  don't  see  but  we  must 
shake  hands  upon  it."  And  the  warlike  powers  shook  hands 
accordingly,  which  was  a  signal  for  general  merriment. 

As  the  company  were  dispersing,  Miss  Silence  laid  hold  of 
the  good  deacon,  and  by  main  strength  dragged  him  aside. 
"  Deacon,"  said  she,  "  I  take  back  all  that  'ere  I  said  about 
you,  every  word  on't." 

"  Don't  say  any  more  about  it,  Miss  Silence,"  said  the  good 
man  ;  "  it's  gone  by,  and  let  it  go." 

"Joseph  !  "  said  his  father,  the  next  morning,  as  he  was  sit- 
ting at  breakfast  with  Joseph  and  Susan,  "  I  calculate  I  shall 
feel  kinder  proud  of  this  'ere  gal !  and  I'll  tell  you  what,  I'll 
jest  give  you  that  nice  little  delicate  Stanton  place  that  I  took 
on  Stanton's  mortgage  :  it's  a  nice  little  place,  with  green 
blinds,  and  flowers,  and  all   them  things,  just  right  for  Susan." 

And  accordingly,  many  happy  years  flew  over  the  heads  of 
the  young  couple  in  the  Stanton  place,  long  after  the  hoary 
hairs  of  their  kind  benefactor,  the  deacon,  were  laid  with  rev- 


88  love  versus  law. 

erence'in  the  dust.  Uncle  Jaw  was  so  far  wrought  upon  by 
the  magnanimity  of  the  good  old  man  as  to  be  very  materially 
changed  for  the  better.  Instead  of  quarrelling  in  real  earnest 
all  around  the  neighborhood,  he  confined  himself  merely  to 
battling  the  opposite  side  of  every  question  with  his  son,  which, 
as  the  latter  was  somewhat  of  a  logician,  afforded  a  pretty 
good  field  for  the  exercise  of  his  powers ;  and  he  was  heard 
to  declare  at  the  funeral  of  the  old  deacon,  that,  "  after  all,  a 
man  got  as  much,  and  may  be  more,  to  go  along  as  the  deacon 
did,  than  to  be  all  the  time  fisting  and  jawing  ;  though  I  tell 
you  what  it  is,"  said  he,  afterwards,  "  'tain't  every  one  that  has 
the  deacon's  faculty,  any  how." 


THE    TEA    ROSE 


There  it  stood,  in  its  little  green  vase,  on  a  light  ebony 
stand,  in  the  window  of  the  drawing  room.  The  rich  satin 
curtains,  with  their  costly  fringes,  swept  down  on  either  side 
of  it,  and  around  it  glittered  every  rare  and  fanciful  trifle 
which  wealth  can  offer  to  luxury;  and  yet  that  simple  rose  was 
the  fairest  of  them  all.  So  pure  it  looked,  its  white  leaves  just 
touched  with  that  delicious  creamy  tint  peculiar  to  its  kind ; 
its  cup  so  full,  so  perfect ;  its  head  bending  as  if  it  were  sink- 
ing and  melting  away  in  its  own  richness  —  0,  when  did  ever 
man  make  any  tiling  to  equal  the  living,  perfect  flower  ? 

But  the  sunlight  that  streamed  through  the  window  revealed 
something  fairer  than  the  rose.  Reclined  on  an  ottoman,  in 
a  deep  recess,  and  intently  engaged  with  a  book,  rested  what 
seemed  the  counterpart  of  that  so  lovely  flower.  That  cheek 
so  pale,  that  fair  forehead  so  spiritual,  that  countenance  so  full 
of  high  thought,  those  long,  downcast  lashes,  and  the  expres- 
sion of  the  beautiful  mouth,  sorrowful,  yet  subdued  and  sweet 
—  it  seemed  like  the  picture  of  a  dream. 

"  Florence !  Florence  ! "  echoed  a  merry  and  musical  voice, 
in  a  sweet,  impatient  tone.  Turn  your  head,  reader,  and  you 
will  see  a  light  and  sparkling  maiden,  the  very  model  of  some 
8  *  (S9) 


90  THE    TEA   KOSE. 

little  wilful  elf,  born  of  mischief  and  motion,  with  a  dancing 
eye,  a  foot  that  scarcely  seems  to  touch  the  carpet,  and  a  smile 
BO  multiplied  by  dimples  that  it  seems  like  a  thousand  smiles 
at  once.  "  Come,  Florence,  I  say,"  said  the  little  sprite,  "  put 
down  that  wise,  good,  and  excellent  volume,  and  descend  from 
your  cloud,  and  talk  with  a  poor  little  mortal.'' 

The  fair  apparition,  thus  adjured,  obeyed ;  and,  looking  up, 
revealed  just  such  eyes  as  you  expected  to  see  beneath  such 
lids  —  eyes  deep,  pathetic,  and  rich  as  a  strain  of  sad  music. 

"  I  say,  cousin,"  said  the  "bright  ladye,"  "  I  have  been  think- 
ing what  you  are  to  do  with  your  pet  rose  when  you  go  to 
New  York,  as,  to  our  consternation,  you  are  determined  to  do; 
you  know  it  would  be  a  sad  pity  to  leave  it  with  such  a  scat- 
terbrain  as  I  am.  I  do  love  flowers,  that  is  a  fact ;  that  is,  I 
like  a  regular  bouquet,  cut  off  and  tied  up,  to  carry  to  a 
party  ;  but  as  to  all  this  tending  and  fussing,  which  is  need- 
ful to  keep  them  growing,  I  have  no  gifts  in  that  line." 

u  Make  yourself  easy  as  to  that,  Kate,"  said  Florence,  with 
a  smile  ;  "I  have  no  intention  of  calling  upon  your  talents;  I 
have  an  asylum  in  view  for  my  favorite." 

"  O,  then  you  know  just  what  I  was  going  to  say.  Mrs. 
Marshall,  I  presume,  has  been  speaking  to  you  ;  she  was  here 
yesterday,  and  I  was  quite  pathetic  upon  the  subject,  telling 
her  the  loss  your  favorite  would  sustain,  and  so  forth  ;  and 
she  said  how  delighted  she  would  be  to  have  it  in  her  green- 
house, it  is  in  such  a  fine  state  now,  so  full  of  buds.  I  told 
her  I  knew  you  would  like  to  give  it  to  her,  you  are  so  fond 
of  Mr-.  Marshall,  you  know." 

M  N<-u.  Kate,  I  am  sorry,  but  I  have  otherwise  engaged  it." 

u  Whom  can  it  be  to  ?  you  have  so  few  intimates  here." 

"  O,  it  is  only  one  of  my  odd  fancies." 


THE    TEA   ROSE.  91 

"  But  do  tell  me,  Florence." 

"  Well,  cousin,  you  know  the  little  pale  girl  to  whom  we 
give  sewing." 

"  What !  little  Mary  Stephens  ?  How  absurd  !  Florence, 
this  is  just  another  of  your  motherly,  oldmaidish  ways  — 
dressing  dolls  for  poor  children,  making  bonnets  and  knitting 
socks  for  all  the  little  dirty  babies  in  the  region  round  about. 
I  do  believe  you  have  made  more  calls  in  those  two  vile,  ill- 
smelling  alleys  back  of  our  house,  than  ever  you  have  in 
Chestnut  Street,  though  you  know  every  body  is  half  dying 
to  see  you  ;  and  now,  to  crown  all,  you  must  give  this  choice 
little  bijou  to  a  seamstress  girl,  when  one  of  your  most  inti- 
mate friends,  in  your  own  class,  would  value  it  so  highly. 
What  in  the  world  can  people  in  their  circumstances  want  of 
flowers  ?  " 

"  Just  the  same  as  I  do,"  replied  Florence,  calmly.  "  Have 
you  not  noticed  that  the  little  girf  never  comes  here  without 
looking  wistfully  at  the  opening  buds  ?  And  don't  you  re- 
member, the  other  morning,  she  asked  me  so  prettily  if  I 
would  let  her  mother  come  and  see  it,  she  was  so  fond  of 
flowers?" 

"  But,  Florence,  only  think  of  this  rare  flower  standing  on  a 
table  with  ham,  eggs,  cheese,  and  flour,  and  stifled  in  that 
close  little  room  where  Mrs.  Stephens  and  her  daughter 
manage  to  wash,  iron,  cook,  and  nobody  knows  what  besides." 

"  Well,  Kate,  and  if  I  were  obliged  to  live  in  one  coarse 
room,  and  wash,  and  iron,  and  cook,  as  you  say,  —  if  I  had  to 
spend  every  moment  of  my  time  in  toil,  with  no  prospect 
from  my  window  but  a  brick  wall  and  dirty  lane,  —  such 
a  flower  as  this  would  be  untold  enjoyment  to  me." 

"  Pshaw  !  Florence  —  all  sentiment :  poor  people  have  no 


92  TriE    TEA   ROSE. 

time  to  be  sentimental.  Besides,  I  don't  believe  it  will  grow 
with  them;  it  is  a  greenhouse  flower,  and  used  to  delicate 
living." 

"  0,  as  to  that,  a  flower  never  inquires  whether  its  owner  is 
rich  or  poor  ;  and  Mrs.  Stephens,  whatever  else  she  has  not, 
has  sunshine  of  as  good  quality  as  this  that  streams  through 
our  window.  The  beautiful  things  that  God  makes  are  his 
gift  to  all  alike.  You  will  see  that  my  fair  rose  will  be  as  well 
and  cheerful  in  Mrs.  Stephens's  room  as  in  ours." 

"  Well,  after  all,  how  odd  !  When  one  gives  to  poor  people, 
one  wants  to  give  them  something  useful — a  bushel  of  pota- 
toes, a  ham,  and  such  things." 

"  Why,  certainly,  potatoes  and  ham  must  be  supplied  ;  but, 
having  ministered  to  the  first  and  most  craving  wants,  why 
not  add  any  other  little  pleasures  or  gratifications  we  may 
have  it  in  our  power  to  bestow  ?  I  know  there  are  many  of 
the  poor  who  have  fine  feeling  and  a  keen  sense  of  the  beau- 
tiful, which  rusts  out  and  dies  because  they  are  too  hard 
pressed  to  procure  it  any  gratification.  Poor  Mrs.  Stephens, 
for  example  :  I  know  she  would  enjoy  birds,  and  flowers,  and 
music,  as  much  as  I  do.  I  have  seen  her  eye  light  up  as  she 
looked  on  these  things  in  our  drawing  room,  and  yet  not  one 
beautiful  thing  can  she  command.  From  necessity,  her  room, 
her  clothing,  all  she  has,  must  be  coarse  and  plain.  You 
Bbould  have  seen  the  almost  rapture  she  and  Mary  felt  when 
I  offered  them  my  rose." 

■  I  tear  me  !  all  this  may  be  true,  but  I  never  thought  of  it 
In-fore.  I  never  thought  that  these  hard-working  people  had 
any  ideas  of  taste  !  " 

"  Then  why  do  you  see  the  geranium  or  rose  so  carefully 
nursed  in  the  old  cracked  teapot  in  the  poorest  room,  or  the 


THE    TEA   ROSE.  93 

morning  glory  planted  in  a  box  and  twined  about  the  window  ? 
Bo  not  these  show  that  the  human  heart  yearns  for  the  beauti- 
ful in  all  ranks  of  life  ?  You  remember,  Kate,  how  our 
washerwoman  sat  up  a  whole  night,  after  a  hard  day's  work, 
to  make  her  first  baby  a  pretty  dress  to  be  baptized  in." 

"  Yes,  and  I  remember  how  I  laughed  at  you  for  making 
such  a  tasteful  little  cap  for  it." 

"  Well,  Katy,  I  think  the  look  of  perfect  delight  with 
which  the  poor  mother  regarded  her  baby  in  its  new  dress 
and  cap  was  something  quite  worth  creating :  I  do  believe  she 
could  not  have  felt  more  grateful  if  I  had  sent  her  a  barrel 
of  flour." 

"  Well,  I  never  thought  before  of  giving  any  thing  to  the 
poor  but  what  they  really  needed,  and  I  have  always  been 
willing  to  do  that  when  I  could  without  going  far  out  of  my 
way." 

"  Well,  cousin,  if  our  heavenly  Father  gave  to  us  after  this 
mode,  we  should  have  only  coarse,  shapeless  piles  of  pro- 
visions lying  about  the  world,  instead  of  all  this  beautiful  vari- 
ety of  trees,  and  fruits,  and  flowers." 

"  Well,  well,  cousin,  I  suppose  you  are  right  —  but  have 
mercy  on  my  poor  head ;  it  is  too  small  to  hold  so  many  new 
ideas  all  at  once  —  so  go  on  your  own  way."  And  the  little 
lady  began  practising  a  waltzing  step  before  the  glass  with 
great  satisfaction. 

It  was  a  very  small  room,  lighted  by  only  one  window. 
There  was  no  carpet  on  the  floor ;  there  was  a  clean,  but 
coarsely-covered  bed  in  one  corner ;  a  cupboard,  with  a  few 
dishes  and  plates,  in  the  other ;  a  chest  of  drawers ;  and 
before  the  window  stood  a  small  cherry  stand,  quite  new, 


94  THE    TEA.   ROSE. 

and,  indeed,  it  was  the  only  article  in  the  room  that 
Beemed   so. 

A  pale,  sickly-looking  woman  of  about  forty  was  leaning 
back  in  her  rocking  chair,  her  eyes  closed  and  her  lips  com- 
pressed  as  if  in  pain.  She  rocked  backward  and  forward  a 
few  minutes,  pressed  her  hand  hard  upon  her  eyes,  and  then 
languidly  resumed  her  fine  stitching,  on  which  she  had  been 
busy  since  morning.  The  door  opened,  and  a  slender  little 
girl  of  about  twelve  years  of  age  entered,  her  large  blue  eyes 
dilated  and  radiant  with  delight  as  she  bore  in  the  vase  with 
the  rose  tree  in  it. 

"  O,  see,  mother,  see  !  Here  is  one  in  full  bloom,  and  two 
more  half  out,  and  ever  so  many  more  pretty  buds  peeping 
out  of  the  green  leaves." 

The  poor  woman's  face  brightened  as  she  looked,  first  on 
the  rose  and  then  on  her  sickly  child,  on  whose  face  she  had 
not  seen  so  bright  a  color  for  months. 

"  God  bless  her  !  "  she  exclaimed,  unconsciously. 

u  Miss  Florence  —  yes,  I  knew  you  would  feel  so,  mother. 
Does  it  not  make  your  head  feel  better  to  see  such  a  beautiful 
flower  ?  Now,  you  will  not  look  so  longingly  at  the  flowers  in 
the  market,  for  we  have  a  rose  that  is  handsomer  than  any 
of  them.  Why,  it  seems  to  me  it  is  worth  as  much  to  us  as 
our  whole  little  garden  used  to  be.  Only  see  how  many  buds 
there  are!  Just  count  them,  and  only  smell  the  flower! 
Now,  where  shall  we  set  it  up?"  And  Mary  skipped  about, 
placing  her  Bower  first  in  one  position  and  then  in  another, 
and  walking  off  to  see  the  effect,  till  her  mother  gently  re- 
rainded  her  thai  the  rose  tree  could  not  preserve  its  beauty 
without  sunlight. 

u  ( >,  yes,  truly,"  said  Mary  ;  "well,  then,  it  must  stand  here 


THE    TEA   ROSE.  95 

on  our  new  stand.  How  glad  I  am  that  we  have  such  a 
handsome  new  stand  for  it !  it  will  look  so  much  better."  And 
Mrs.  Stephens  laid  down  her  work,  and  folded  a  piece  of  news- 
paper, on  which  the  treasure  was  duly  deposited. 

"There,"  said  Mary,  watching  the  arrangement  eagerly, 
"that  will  do  —  no,  for  it  does  not  show  both  the  opening 
buds  ;  a  little  farther  around  —  a  little  more  ;  there,  that  is 
right ; "  and  then  Mary  walked  around  to  view  the  rose  in 
various  positions,  after  which  she  urged  her  mother  to  go  with 
her  to  the  outside,  and  see  how  it  looked  there.  "  How  kind 
it  was  in  Miss  Florence  to  think  of  giving  this  to  us  ! "  said 
Mary ;  "  though  she  had  done  so  much  for  us,  and  given  us  so 
many  things,  yet  this  seems  the  best  of  all,  because  it  seems 
as  if  she  thought  of  us,  and  knew  just  how  we  felt ;  and  so 
few  do  that,  you  know,  mother." 

"What  a  bright  afternoon  that  little  gift  made  in  that  little 
room !  How  much  faster  Mary's  fingers  flew  the  livelong  day 
as  she  sat  sewing  by  her  mother !  and  Mrs.  Stephens,  in  the 
happiness  of  her  child,  almost  forgot  that  she  had  a  headache, 
and  thought,  as  she  sipped  her  evening  cup  of  tea,  that  she 
felt  stronger  than  #he  had  done  for  some  time. 

That  rose !  its  sweet  influence  died  not  with  the  first  day. 
Through  all  the  long,  cold  winter,  the  watching,  tending,  cher- 
ishing that  flower  awakened  a  thousand  pleasant  trains  of 
thought,  that  beguiled  the  sameness  and  weariness  of  their 
life.  Every  day  the  fair,  growing  thing  put  forth  some  fresh 
beauty  —  a  leaf,  a  bud,  a  new  shoot,  and  constantly  awakened 
fresh  enjoyment  in  its  possessors.  As  it  stood  in  the  window, 
the  passer  by  would  sometimes  stop  and  gaze,  attracted  by  its 
beauty,  and  then  proud  and  happy  was  Mary  ;  nor  did  even 


96  THE    TEA   ROSE. 

the  serious  and  care-worn  widow  notice  with  indifference  this 
tribute  to  the  beauty  of  their  favorite. 

But  little  did  Florence  think,  when  she  bestowed  the  gift, 
that  there  twined  about  it  an  invisible  thread  that  reached  far 
and  brightly  into  the  web  of  her  destiny. 

One  cold  afternoon  in  early  spring,  a  tall  and  graceful  gen- 
tleman called  at  the  lowly  room  to  pay  for  the  making  of 
some  linen  by  the  inmates.  He  was  a  stranger  and  wayfarer, 
recommended  through  the  charity  of  some  of  Mrs.  Stephens's 
patrons.  As  he  turned  to  go,  his  eye  rested  admiringly  on  the 
rose  tree  ;  and  he  stopped  ,to  gaze  at  it. 

"  How  beautiful !  "  said  he. 

"  Yes,"  said  little  Mary ;  "  and  it  was  given  to  us  by  a  lady 
as  sweet  and  beautiful  as  that  is." 

"  Ah,"  said  the  stranger,  turning  upon  her  a  pair  of  bright 
dark  eye.-,  pleased  and  rather  struck  by  the  communication ; 
"  and  how  came  she  to  give  it  to  you,  my  little  girl  ?" 

"  0,  because  we  are  poor,  and  mother  is  sick,  and  we  never 
can  have  any  thing  pretty.  We  used  to  have  a  garden  once ; 
and  we  loved  flowers  so  much,  and  Miss  Florence  found  it 
out,  and  so  she  gave  us  this." 

"  Florence  !  "  echoed  the  stranger. 

"  Yes,  Miss  Florence  L'Estrange  —  a  beautiful  lady.    They 
she  was  from  foreign  parts;  but  she  speaks  English  just 
like  other  ladies,  only  sweeter." 

'•!>  Bhe  here  now?  is  she  in  this  city?  "said  the  gentle- 
man, eagerly. 

"  N<>  ;  Bhe  left  some  months  ago,"  said  the  widow,  noticing 
the  shade  of  disappointment  on  his  face.  "  But,"  said  she 
"  you  can  iind  out  all  about  her  at  her  aunt's,  Mrs.  Carlysle's, 
No.  10  Street." 


THE    TEA   ROSE.  97 

A  short  time  after  Florence  received  a  letter  in  a  hand- 
writing that  made  her  tremble.  During  the  many  early  years 
of  her  life  spent  in  France  she  had  well  learned  to  know  that 
writing  —  had  loved  as  a  woman  like  her  loves  only  once ; 
but  there  had  been  obstacles  of  parents  and  friends,  long 
separation,  long  suspense,  till,  after  anxious  years,  she  had 
believed  the  ocean  had  closed  over  that  hand  and  heart ;  and 
it  was  this  that  had  touched  with  such  pensive  sorrow  the 
lines  in  her  lovely  face. 

But  this  letter  told  that  he  was  living  —  that  he  had  traced 
her,  even  as  a  hidden  streamlet  may  be  traced,  by  the  fresh- 
ness, the  verdure  of  heart,  which  her  deeds  of  kindness  had 
left  wherever  she  had  passed.  Thus  much  said,  our  readers 
need  no  help  in  finishing  my  story  for  themselves. 
9 


TRIALS   OF  A   HOUSEKEEPER 


I  have  a  detail  of  very  homely  grievances  to  present;  but 
such  as  they  arc  many  a  heart  will  feel  them  to  be  heavy  — 
the  trials  of  a  housekeeper. 

"  Poh  ! "  says  one  of  the  lords  of  creation,  taking  his  cigar 
out  of  his  mouth,  and  twirling  it  between  his  two  first  fingers, 
"  what  a  fuss  these  women  do  make  of  this  simple  matter  of 
managing  a  family!  I  can't  see  for  my  life  as  there  is  any 
thing  so  extraordinary  to  be  done  in  this  matter  of  house- 
keeping :  only  three  meals  a  day  to  be  got  and  cleared  off — ■ 
ami  it  really  seems  to  take  up  the  whole  of  their  mind  from 
morning  till  night,  i"  could  keep  house  without  so  much  of  a 
flurry,  I  know." 

Now,  prithee,  good  brother,  listen  to  my  story,  and  see  how 
much  you  know  about  it.  I  came  to  this  enlightened  West 
aboul  a  year  since,  and  was  duly  established  in  a  comfortable 
country  residence  within  a  mile  and  a  half  of  the  city,  and 
there  commenced  the  enjoyment  of  domestic  felicity.  I  had 
hi  in  married  about  three  months,  and  had  been  previously  in 
love  in  the  mosl  approved  romantic  way,  with  all  the  proprie- 
ty- of  moonlighl  walk-,  serenades,  sentimental  billets  doux,  and 
everlasting  attachment. 

C98) 


TRIALS    OP    A    HOUSEKEEPER.  99 

After  having  been  allowed,  as  I  said,  about  three  months  to 
get  over  this  sort  of  thing,  and  to  prepare  for  realities,  I  was 
located  for  life  as  aforesaid.  My  family  consisted  of  myself 
and  husband,  a  female  friend  as  a  visitor,  and  two  brothers 
of  my  good  man,  who  were  engaged  with  him  in  business. 

I  pass  over  the  two  or  three  first  days,  spent  in  that  pro- 
cess of  hammering  boxes,  breaking  crockery,  knocking  things 
down  and  picking  them  up  again,  which  is  commonly  called 
getting  to  housekeeping.  As  usual,  carpets  were  sewed  and 
stretched,  laid  down,  and  taken  up  to  be  sewed  over  ;  things 
were  formed,  and  reformed,  fra/wformed,  and  conformed,  till  at 
last  a  settled  order  began  to  appear.  But  now  came  up  the 
great  point  of  all.  During  our  confusion  we  had  cooked  and 
eaten  our  meals  in  a  very  miscellaneous  and  pastoral  manner, 
eating  now  from  the  top  of  a  barrel  and  now  from  a  fireboard  laid 
on  two  chairs,  and  drinking,  some  from  teacups,  and  some  from 
saucers,  and  some  from  tumblers,  and  some  from  a  pitcher  big 
enough  to  be  drowned  in,  and  sleeping,  some  on  sofas,  and 
some  on  straggling  beds  and  mattresses  thrown  down  here  and 
there  wherever  there  was  room.  All  these  pleasant  barbari- 
ties were  now  at  an  end.  The  house  was  in  order,  the  dishes 
put  up  in  their  places ;  three  regular  meals  were  to  be  admin- 
istered in  one  day,  all  in  an  orderly,  civilized  form ;  beds  were 
to  be  made,  rooms  swept  and  dusted,  dishes  washed,  knives 
scoured,  and  all  the  et  cetera  to  be  attended  to.  Now  for 
getting  "help"  as  Mrs.  Trollope  says;  and  where  and  how 
were  we  to  get  it  ?  We  knew  very  few  persons  in  the  city  ; 
and  how  were  Ave  to  accomplish  the  matter  ?  At  length  the 
"  house  of  employment "  was  mentioned  ;  and  my  husband  was 
despatched  thither  regularly  every  day  for  a  week,  while  I, 
in  the  mean  time,  was  very  nearly  despatched  by  the  abun- 


100  TRIALS    OF   A   HOUSEKEEPER. 

dance  of  work  at  home.  At  length,  one  evening,  as  I  was 
sitting  completely  exhausted,  thinking  of  resorting  to  the  last 
feminine  expedient  for  supporting  life,  viz.,  a  good  tit  of  cry- 
ing, my  husband  made  his  appearance,  with  a  most  triumphant 
air.  at  the  door.  "  There,  Margaret,  I  have  got  you  a  couple 
at  last  —  cook  and  chambermaid."  So  saying,  he  flourished 
open  the  door,  and  gave  to  my  view  the  picture  of  a  little,  dry, 
snuffy-looking  old  woman,  and  a  great,  staring  Dutch  girl,  in  a 
green  bonnet  with  red  ribbons,  with  mouth  wide  open,  and  hands 
and  feet  that  would  have  made  a  Greek  sculptor  open  his 
mouth  too.  I  addressed  forthwith  a  few  words  of  encourage- 
ment to  each  of  this  cultivated-looking  couple,  and  proceeded 
to  ask  their  names ;  and  forthwith  the  old  woman  began  to 
snuffle  and  to  wipe  her  face  with  what  was  left  of  an  old  silk 
pocket  handkerchief  preparatory  to  speaking,  while  the  young 
lady  opened  her  mouth  wider,  and  looked  around  with  a 
frightened  air,  as  if  meditating  an  escape.  After  some  prelim- 
inaries however,  I  found  out  that  my  old  woman  was  Mrs. 
Tibbins,  and  my  Hebe's  name  was  Kotterin  ;  also,  that  she 
knew  much  more  Dutch  than  English,  and  not  any  too  much 
of  either.  The  old  lady  was  the  cook.  I  ventured  a  few 
inquiries.     "  Had  she  ever  cooked  ?  " 

"  Yes,  ma'am,  sartain ;  she  had  lived  at  two  or  three  places 
in  the  city." 

"I  suspect,  my  dear,"  said  my  husband  confidently,  "that 
she  is  an  experienced  cook,  and  so  your  troubles  are  over;" 
and  he  went  to  reading  his  newspaper.  I  said  no  more,  but 
determined  to  wail  till  morning.  The  breakfast,  to  be  sure, 
did  not  do  much  honor  to  the  talents  of  my  official;  but  it  was 
the  lii-t  time,  and  the  place  was  new  to  her.  After  breakfast 
was  cleared  away  I   proceeded  to  give  directions  for  dinner; 


TRIALS    OF    A    HOUSEKEEPER.  101 

it  was  merely  a  plain  joint  of  meat,  I  said,  to  be  roasted  in 
the  tin  oven.  The  experienced  cook  looked  at  me  with  a 
stare  of  entire  vacuity.  "  The  tin  oven,"  I  repeated,  "  stands 
there,"  pointing  to  it. 

She  walked  up  to  it,  and  touched  it  with  such  an  appear- 
ance of  suspicion  as  if  it  had  been  an  electrical  battery,  and 
then  looked  round  at  me  with  a  look  of  such  helpless  igno- 
rance that  my  soul  was  moved.  "  I  never  see  one  of  them 
things  before,"  said  she. 

"  Never  saw  a  tin  oven  ! "  I  exclaimed.  "  I  thought  you 
said  you  had  cooked  in  two  or  three  families." 

"  They  does  not  have  such  things  as  them,  though,"  re- 
joined my  old  lady.  Nothing  was  to  be  done,  of  course,  but 
to  instruct  her  into  the  philosophy  of  the  case  ;  and  having 
spitted  the  joint,  and  given  numberless  directions,  I  walked 
off  to  my  room  to  superintend  the  operations  of  Kotterin,  to 
whom  I  had  committed  the  making  of  my  bed  and  the  sweep- 
ing of  my  room,  it  never  having  come  into  my  head  that  there 
could  be  a  wrong  way  of  making  a  bed  ;  and  to  this  day  it  is 
a  marvel  to  me  how  any  one  could  arrange  pillows  and  quilts 
to  make  such  a  nondescript  appearance  as  mine  now  present- 
ed. One  glance  showed  me  that  Kotterin  also  was  "just 
caught" and  that  I  had  as  much  to  do  in  her  department  as  in 
that  of  my  old  lady. 

Just  then  the  door  bell  rang.  "  0,  there  is  the  door  bell," 
I  exclaimed.  "Run,  Kotterin,  and  show  them  into  the 
parlor." 

Kotterin  started  to  run,  as  directed,  and  then  stopped,  and 

stood  looking  round  on  all  the  doors  and  on  me  with  a  wofully 

puzzled  air.     "  The  street  door,"  said  I,  pointing  towards  the 

entry.     Kotterin  blundered  into  the  entry,  and  stood  gazing 

9* 


102  TRIALS    OF   A   HOUSEKEEPER. 

with  a  look  of  stupid  wonder  at  the  bell  ringing  without  hands, 
while  I  went  to  the  door  and  let  in  the  company  before  she 
could  be  fairly  made  to  understand  the  connection  between  the 
ringing  and  the  phenomenon  of  admission. 

As  dinner  time  approached,  I  sent  word  into  my  kitchen  to 
have  it  set  on  ;  but,  recollecting  the  state  of  the  heads  of  de- 
partment there,  I  soon  followed  my  own  orders.  I  found  the 
tin  oven  standing  out  in  the  middle  of  the  kitchen,  and  my 
cook  seated  d  la  Turc  in  front  of  it,  contemplating  the  roast 
meat  with  full  as  puzzled  an  air  as  in  the  morning.  I  once 
more  explained  the  mystery  of  taking  it  off,  and  assisted  her 
to  get  it  on  to  the  platter,  though  somewhat  cooled  by  having 
been  so  long  set  out  for  inspection.  I  was  standing  holding 
the  spit  in  my  hands,  when  Kotterin,  who  had  heard  the  door 
bell  ring,  and  was  determined  this  time  to  be  in  season,  ran 
into  the  hall,  and  soon  returning,  opened  the  kitchen  door,  and 
politely  ushered  in  three  or  four  fashionable  looking  ladies, 
exclaiming,  "  Here  she  is."  As  these  were  strangers  from 
the  city,  who  had  come  to  make  their  first  call,  this  introduc- 
tion was  far  from  proving  an  eligible  one  —  the  look  of  thun- 
derstruck astonishment  with  which  I  greeted  their  first  appear- 
ance, as  I  stood  brandishing  the  spit,  and  the  terrified  snuffling 
and  staring  of  poor  Mrs.  Tibbins,  who  again  had  recourse  to 
her  old  pocket  handkerchief,  almost  entirely  vanquished  their 
gravity,  and  it  was  evident  that  they  were  on  the  point  of  a 
broad  laugh;  so,  recovering  my  self-possession,  I  apologized, 
ami  led  the  way  to  the  parlor. 

Let  these  few  incidents  be  a  specimen  of  the  four  mortal 
weeks  that  I  spent  witli  these  "  helps"  during  which  time  I 
did  almost  as  much  work,  with  twice  as  much  anxiety,  as  when 


TRIALS    OF   A    HOUSEKEEPER.  103 

there  was  nobody  there  ;  and  yet  every  thing  went  wrong  be- 
sides. The  young  gentlemen  complained  of  the  patches  of 
starch  grimed  to  their  collars,  and  the  streaks  of  black  coal 
ironed  into  their  dickies,  while  one  week  every  pocket  hand- 
kerchief in  the  house  was  starched  so  stiff  that  you  might  as 
well  have  carried  an  earthen  plate  in  your  pocket ;  the  tum- 
blers looked  muddy  ;  the  plates  were  never  washed  clean  or 
wiped  dry  unless  I  attended  to  each  one  ;  and  as  to  eating 
and  drinking,  we  experienced  a  variety  that  we  had  not  before 
considered  possible. 

At  length  the  old  woman  vanished  from  the  stage,  and  was 
succeeded  by  a  knowing,  active,  capable  damsel,  with  a  tem- 
per like  a  steel-trap,  who  remained  with  me  just  one  week, 
and  then  went  off  in  a  fit  of  spite.  To  her  succeeded  a  rosy, 
good-natured,  merry  lass,  who  broke  the  crockery,  burned  the 
dinner,  tore  the  clothes  in  ironing,  and  knocked  down  every 
thing  that  stood  in  her  way  about  the  house,  without  at  all 
discomposing  herself  about  the  matter.  One  night  she  took 
the  stopper  from  a  barrel  of  molasses,  and  came  singing  off  up 
stairs,  while  the  molasses  ran  soberly  out  into  the  cellar  bot- 
tom all  night,  till  by  morning  it  was  in  a  state  of  universal 
emancipation.  Having  done  this,  and  also  despatched  an  en- 
tire set  of  tea  things  by  letting  the  waiter  fall,  she  one  day 
made  her  disappearance. 

Then,  for  a  wonder,  there  fell  to  my  lot  a  tidy,  efficient- 
trained  English  girl ;  pretty,  and  genteel,  and  neat,  and  know- 
ing how  to  do  every  thing,  and  with  the  sweetest  temper  in 
the  world.  "  Now,"  said  I  to  myself,  "  I  shall  rest  from  my 
labors."  Every  thing  about  the  house  began  to  go  right,  and 
looked  as  clean  and  genteel  as  Mary's  own  pretty  self.     But, 


104  TRIALS    OF    A   HOUSEKEEPER. 

alas  !  this  period  of  repose  was  interrupted  by  the  vision  of  a 
clever,  trim-looking  young  man,  who  for  some  weeks  could  be 
heard  -raping  his  boots  at  the  kitchen  door  every  Sunday 
night ;  and  at  last  Miss  Mary,  with  some  smiling  and  blush- 
ing, gave   me   to   understand   that   she   must   leave   in   two 

weeks. 

"  Why,  Mary,"  said  I,  feeling  a  little  mischievous,  "  don't 

you  like  the  place  ?  " 

"  O,  yes,  ma'am." 

u  Then  why  do  you  look  for  another  ?  " 

"  I  am  not  going  to  another  place." 

"  What,  Mary,  are  you  going  to  learn  a  trade  ?  " 

"  No,  ma'am." 

"  Why,  then,  what  do  you  mean  to  do  ?  " 

"  I  expect  to  keep  house  myself,  ma'am,"  said  she,  laughing 
and  blushing. 

"  O  ho  !  "  said  I,  "  that  is  it ;  "  and  so,  in  two  weeks,  I  lost 
the  best  little  girl  in  the  world  :  peace  to  her  memory. 

After  this  came  an  interregnum,  which  put  me  in  mind  of 
the  chapter  in  Chronicles  that  I  used  to  read  with  great  de- 
light when  a  child,  where  Basha,  and  Elah,  and  Tibni,  and 
Zimri,  and  Omri,  one  after  the  other,  came  on  to  the  throne 
of  Israel,  all  in  the  compass  of  half  a  dozen  verses.  We  had 
one  old  woman,  who  staid  a  week,  and  went  away  with  the 
misery  in  her  tooth  ;  one  young  woman,  who  ran  away  and 
married  ;  one  cook,  who  came  at  night  and  went  off  be- 
fore  lighl  in  tin-  morning;  one  very  clever  girl,  who  staid  a 
month,  and  then  wenl  away  because  her  mother  was  sick; 
another,  who  staid  six  weeks,  ami  was  taken  with  the  fever 
herself;  and  during  all  this  time,  who  can  speak  the  damage 


TRIALS    OF    A    HOUSEKEEPER.  105 

and  destruction  wrought   in  the  domestic   paraphernalia  by 
passing  through  these  multiplied  hands  ? 

What  shall  we  do  ?  Shall  we  give  up  houses,  have  no  fur- 
niture to  take  care  of,  keep  merely  a  bag  of  meal,  a  porridge 
pot,  and  a  pudding  stick,  and  sit  in  our  tent  door  in  real  patri- 
archal independence  ?     What  shall  we  do  ? 


LITTLE    EDWARD 


Were  any  of  you  born  in  New  England,  in  the  good  old 
catechizing,  church-going,  school-going,  orderly  times  ?  If  so, 
you  may  have  seen  my  Uncle  Abel ;  the  most  perpendicular, 
rectangular,  upright,  downright  good  man  that  ever  labored 
Biz  days  and  rested  on  the  seventh. 

You  remember  his  hard,  weather-beaten  countenance,  where 
every  line  seemed  drawn  with  "a  pen  of  iron  and  the  point 
of  a  diamond;"  his  considerate  gray  eyes,  that  moved  over 
objects  as  if  it  were  not  best  to  be  in  a  hurry  about  seeing; 
the  circumspect  opening  and  shutting  of  the  mouth  ;  his  down- 
sitting  and  up-rising,  all  performed  with  conviction  afore- 
thought —  in  short,  the  whole  ordering  of  his  life  and  conver- 
Bation,  which  was,  according  to  the  tenor  of  the  military  order, 
"  to  the  right  about  face  —  forward,  march  !  " 

Now,  it'  you  supposed,  from  all  this  triangularism  of  exteri- 
or, thai  this  good  man  had  nothing  kindly  within,  you  were 
much  mistaken.  You  often  find  the  greenest  grass  under  a 
Bnowdrifl  ;  and  though  my  uncle's  mind  was  not  exactly  of 
the  flower  garden  kind,  still  there  was  an  abundance  of  whole- 
Bome  ami  kindly  vegetation  there. 

li  i-  true,  he  -'Mom  laughed,  and  never  joked  himself;  but 

(106) 


LITTLE    EDWARD.  107 

no  man  had  a  more  serious  and  weighty  conviction  of  what  a 
good  joke  was  in  another ;  and  when  some  exceeding  witti- 
cism was  dispensed  in  his  presence,  you  might  see  Uncle 
Abel's  face  slowly  relax  into  an  expression  of  solemn  satisfac- 
tion, and  he  would  look  at  the  author  with  a  sort  of  quiet 
wonder,  as  if  it  was  past  his  comprehension  how  such  a  thing 
could  ever  come  into  a  man's  head. 

Uncle  Abel,  too,  had  some  relish  for  the  fine  arts  ;  in  proof 
of  which,  I  might  adduce  the  pleasure  with  which  he  gazed 
at  the  plates  in  his  family  Bible,  the  likeness  whereof  is 
neither  in  heaven,  nor  on  earth,  nor  under  the  earth.  And  he 
was  also  such  an  eminent  musician,  that  he  could  go  through 
the  singing  book  at  one  sitting  without  the  least  fatigue,  beat- 
ing time  like  a  windmill  all  the  way. 

He  had,  too,  a  liberal  hand,  though  his  liberality  was  all  by 
the  rule  of  three.  He  did  by  his  neighbor  exactly  as  he  would 
be  done  by ;  he  loved  some  things  in  this  wrorld  very  sincere- 
ly :  he  loved  his  God  much,  but  he  honored  and  feared  him 
more  ;  he  was  exact  with  others,  he  was  more  exact  with  him- 
self, and  he  expected  his  God  to  be  more  exact  still. 

Every  thing  in  Uncle  Abel's  house  was  in  the  same  time, 
place,  manner,  and  form,  from  year's  end  to  year's  end.  There 
was  old  Master  Bose,  a  dog  after  my  uncle's  own  heart,  who 
always  walked  as  if  he  was  studying  the  multiplication  table. 
There  was  the  old  clock,  forever  ticking  in  the  kitchen  corner, 
with  a  picture  on  its  face  of  the  sun,  forever  setting  behind  a 
perpendicular  row  of  poplar  trees.  There  was  the  never- 
failing  supply  of  red  peppers  and  onions  hanging  over  the 
chimney.  There,  too,  were  the  yearly  hollyhocks  and  morn- 
ing-glories blooming  about  the  window's.  There  was  the 
"  best  room,"  with  its  sanded  floor,  the  cupboard  in  one  corner 


108  LITTLE    EDWARD. 

with  its  glass  doors,  the  ever  green  asparagus  bushes  in  the 
chimney,  and  there  was  the  stand  with  the  Bible  and  almanac 
on  it  in  another  corner.  There,  too,  was  Aunt  Betsey,  who 
never  looked  any  older,  because  she  always  looked  as  old  as 
she  could  ;  who  always  dried  her  catnip  and  wormwood  the 
last  of  September,  and  began  to  clean  house  the  first  of  May. 
In  short,  this  was  the  land  of  continuance.  Old  Time  never 
took  it  into  his  head  to  practise  either  addition,  or  subtraction, 
or  multiplication  on  its  sum  total. 

This  Aunt  Betsey  aforenamed  was  the  neatest  and  most 
efficient  piece  of  human  machinery  that  ever  operated  in  forty 
places  at  once.  She  was  always  every  where,  predominating 
over  and  seeing  to  every  thing  ;  and  though  my  uncle  had 
been  twice  married,  Aunt  Betsey's  rule  and  authority  had 
never  been  broken.  She  reigned  over  his  wives  when  living, 
and  reigned  after  them  when  dead,  and  so  seemed  likeky  to 
n  agn  on  to  the  end  of  the  chapter.  But  my  uncle's  latest 
wife  left  Aunt  Betsey  a  much  less  tractable  subject  than  ever 
before  had  fallen  to  her  lot.  Little  Edward  was  the  child  of 
my  uncle's  old  age,  and  a  brighter,  merrier  little  blossom 
never  grew  on  the  verge  of  an  avalanche.  He  had  been 
committed  to  the  nursing  of  his  grandmamma  till  he  had 
arrived  at  the  age  of  indiscretion,  and  then  my  old  uncle's 
heart  bo  yearned  for  him  that  he  was  sent  for  home. 

Hi-  introduction  into  the  family  excited  a  terrible  sensation. 
Never  waa  there  such  a  contemner  of  dignities,  such  a  viola- 
tor of  high  places  and  sanctities,  as  this  very  Master  Edward. 
It  was  all  in  vain  to  try  to  teach  him  decorum.  He  was  the 
most  outrageously  merry  ell*  that  ever  shook  a  head  of  curls; 
Rnd  it  was  all  the  same  to  him  whether  it  was  "  Sabba'  day" 
or  any  other  day.     lie  laughed  and  frolicked  with  every  body 


LITTLE    EDWARD.  109 

and  every  thing  that  came  in  his  way,  not  even  excepting  his 
solemn  old  father ;  and  when  you  saw  him,  with  his  fair  arms 
around  the  old  man's  neck,  and  his  bright  blue  eyes  and 
blooming  cheek  peering  out  beside  the  bleak  face  of  Uncle 
Abel,  you  might  fancy  you  saw  spring  caressing  winter.  Un- 
cle Abel's  metaphysics  were  sorely  puzzled  by  this  sparkling, 
dancing  compound  of  spirit  and  matter ;  nor  could  he  devise 
any  method  of  bringing  it  into  any  reasonable  shape,  for  he  did 
mischief  with  an  energy  and  perseverance  that  was  truly  as- 
tonishing. Once  he  scoured  the  floor  with  Aunt  Betsey's  very 
Scotch  snuff;  once  he  washed  up  the  hearth  with  Uncle  Abel's 
most  immaculate  clothes  brush  ;  and  once  he  was  found  trying 
to  make  Bose  wear  his  father's  spectacles.  In  short,  there 
was  no  use,  except  the  right  one,  to  which  he  did  not  put 
every  thing  that  came  in  his  way. 

But  Uncle  Abel  was  most  of  all  puzzled  to  know  what  to  do 
with  him  on  the  Sabbath,  for  on  that  day  Master  Edward 
seemed  to  exert  himself  to  be  particularly  diligent  and  enter- 
taining. 

"Edward!  Edward  must  not  play  Sunday!"  his  father 
would  call  out ;  and  then  Edward  would  hold  up  his  curly 
head,  and  look  as  grave  as  the  catechism  ;  but  in  three  minutes 
you  would  see  "  pussy  "  scampering  through  the  "  best  room, " 
with  Edward  at  her  heels,  to  the  entire  discomposure  of  all  de- 
votion in  Aunt  Betsey  and  all  others  in  authority. 

At  length  my  uncle  came  to  the  conclusion  that  "  it  wasn't 
in  natur'  to  teach  him  any  better,"  and  that "  he  could  no  more 
keep  Sunday  than  the  brook  down  in  the  lot."  My  poor  un- 
cle !  he  did  not  -know  what  was  the  matter  with  his  heart,  but 
certain  it  was,  he  lost  all  faculty  of  scolding  when  little  Ed- 
ward was  in  the  case,  and  he  would  rub  his  spectacles  a  quar- 
10 


HO  LITTLE    EDWARD. 

ter  of  an  hour  longer  than  common  when  Aunt  Betsey  was 
detailing  his  witticisms  and  clever  doings. 

In  process  of  time  our  hero  had  compassed  his  third  year, 
and  arrived  at  the  dignity  of  going  to  school.  He  went  illus- 
triously through  the  spelling  book,  and  then  attacked  the  cate- 
chismj  went  from  "man's  chief  end"  to  the  "  requiring  and 
forbiddinV  in  a  fortnight,  and  at  last  came  home  inordi- 
nately merry,  to  tell  his  father  that  he  had  got  to  "Amen." 
.-  this  he  made  a  regular  business  of  saying  over  the 
whole  every  Sunday  evening,  standing  with  his  hands  folded  in 
and  his  checked  apron  folded  down,  occasionally  glancing 
round  to  see  it'  pussy  gave  proper  attention.  And,  being  of  a 
practically  benevolent  turn  of  mind,  he  made  several  com- 
mendable  efforts  to  teach  Bose  the  catechism,  in  which  he  suc- 
ceeded as  well  as  might  be  expected.  In  short,  without  fur- 
ther detail,  Master  Edward  bade  fair  to  become  a  literary 
wonder. 

But  alas  for  poor  little  Edward  !  his  merry  dance  was  soon 
over.  A  day  came  when  he  sickened.  Aunt  Betsey  tried  her 
whole  herbarium,  but  in  vain  :  he  grew  rapidly  worse  and 
worse.  His  father  sickened  in  heart,  but  said  nothing ;  he 
only  staid  by  his  bedside  day  and  night,  trying  all  means  to 
save,  witli  affecting  pertinacity. 

u  Can't  you  think  of  any  thing  more,  doctor  ?  "  said  he  to  the 
physician,  when  all  had  been  tried  in  vain. 

"  Nothing,"  answered  the  physician. 

A  1 1 101 1  leutary  convulsion  passed  over  my  uncle's  face.  "The 
will  of  the  Lord  be  done,"  said  he,  almost  with  a  groan  of 
anguish. 

Just  at  that  moment  a  ray  of  the  setting  sun  pierced 
the   checked    curtains,    and   gleamed   like    an    angel's   smile 


LITTLE    EDWARD.  Ill 

across  the  face  of  the  little  sufferer.  He  woke  from  troubled 
sleep. 

"O,  dear!  I  am  so  sick!"  he  gasped,  feebly.  Plis  father 
raised  him  in  his  arms  ;  he  breathed  easier,  and  looked  up 
with  a  grateful  smile.  Just  then  his  old  playmate,  the  cat, 
crossed  the  room.  "  There  goes  pussy,"  said  he  ;  "  O,  dear ! 
I  shall  never  play  any  more." 

At  that  moment  a  deadly  change  passed  over  his  face.  He 
looked  up  in  his  father's  face  with  an  imploring  expression, 
and  put  out  his  hand  as  if  for  help.  There  was  one  moment 
of  agony,  and  then  the  sweet  features  all  settled  into  a  smile 
of  peace,  and  "  mortality  was  swallowed  up  of  life." 

My  uncle  laid  him  down,  and  looked  one  moment  at  his 
beautiful  face.  It  Avas  too  much  for  his  principles,  too  much 
for  his  consistency,  and  "  he  lifted  up  his  voice  and  wept." 

The  next  morning*  was  the  Sabbath  —  the  funeral  day  — 
and  it  rose  with  "  breath  all  incense  and  with  cheek  all 
bloom."  Uncle  Abel  was  as  calm  and  collected  as  ever  ;  but 
in  his  face  there  was  a  sorrow-stricken  appearance  touching  to 
behold.  I  remember  him  at  family  prayers,  as  he  bent  over 
the  great  Bible  and  began  the  psalm,  "  Lord,  thou  hast  been 
our  dwelling-place  in  all  generations."  Apparently  he  was 
touched  by  the  melancholy  splendor  of  the  poetry,  for  after 
reading  a  few  verses  he  stopped.  There  was  a  dead  silence, 
interrupted  only  by  the  tick  of  the  clock.  He  cleared  his 
voice  repeatedly,  and  tried  to  go  on,  but  in  vain.  He  closed 
the  book,  and  kneeled  down  to  prayer.  The  energy  of  sor- 
row broke  through  his  usual  formal  reverence,  and  his  lan- 
guage flowed  forth  with  a  deep  and  sorrowful  pathos  which 
I  shall  never  forget.  The  God  so  much  reverenced,  so  much 
feared,   seemed  to  draw  near  to  him  as  a  friend   and  com- 


112  LITTLE    EDWARD. 

forter,  his  refuge  and  strength,  "  a  very  present  help  in  time 
of  trouble." 

31  v  uncle  rose,  and  I  saw  him  walk  to  the  room  of  the  de- 
parted one.  He  uncovered  the  face.  It  was  set  with  the 
Beal  <  if  death  ;  but  0,  how  surpassingly  lovely  !  The  brilliancy 
of  life  was  gone,  but  that  pure,  transparent  face  was  touched 
with  a  mysterious,  triumphant  brightness,  which  seemed  like 
the  dawning  of  heaven. 

My  ancle  looked  long  and  earnestly.  He  felt  the  beauty  of 
what  lie  gazed  on  ;  his  heart  was  softened,  but  he  had  no 
woids  for  his  feelings.  He  left  the  room  unconsciously,  and 
stood  in  the  front  door.  The  morning  was  bright,  the  bells 
were  ringing  for  church,  the  birds  were  singing  merrily,  and 
the  pel  squirrel  of  little  Edward  was  frolicking  about  the  door. 
My  uncle  watched  him  as  he  ran  first  up  one  tree,  and  then 
down  and  up  another,  and  then  over  the  fence,  whisking  his 
brush  and  chattering  just  as  if  nothing  was  the  matter. 

With  a  deep  sigh  Uncle  Abel  broke  forth,  "  How  happy  that 
cretur'  is  !     Well,  the  Lord's  will  be  done." 

Thai  day  the  dust  was  committed  to  dust,  amid  the  lamenta- 
tions of  all  who  had  known  little  Edward.  Years  have  passed 
Bince  then,  and  all  that  is  mortal  of  my  uncle  has  long  since 
been  gathered  to  his  fathers;  but  his  just  and  upright  spirit 
has  entered  the  glorious  liberty  of  the  sons  of  God.  Yes, 
the  good  man  may  have  had  opinions  which  the  philosophical 
scorn,  weaknesses  at  which  the  thoughtless  smile;  but  death 
shall  change  him  into  nil  that  is  enlightened,  wise,  and  refined; 
for  he  shall  awake  iii  "  His"  likeness,  and  "be  satisfied." 


AUNT   MARY. 


Since  sketching  character  is  the  mode,  I  too  take  up  my 
pencil,  not  to  make  you  laugh,  though  perad venture  it  may  be 
—  to  get  you  to  sleep. 

I  am  now  a  tolerably  old  gentleman  —  an  old  bachelor, 
moreover  —  and,  what  is  more  to  the  point,  an  unpretending 
and  sober-minded  one.  Lest,  however,  any  of  the  ladies 
should  take  exceptions  against  me  in  the  very  outset,  I  will 
merely  remark,  en  passant,  that  a  man  can  sometimes  become 
an  old  bachelor  because  he  has  too  much  heart  as  well  as  too 
little. 

Years  ago  —  before  any  of  my  readers  were  born  —  I  was 
a  little  good-for-nought  of  a  boy,  of  precisely  that  unlucky  kind 
who  are  always  in  every  body's  way,  and  always  in  mischief. 
I  had,  to  watch  over  my  uprearing,  a  father  and  mother,  and 
a  whole  army  of  older  brothers  and  sisters.  My  relatives 
bore  a  very  great  resemblance  to  other  human  beings,  neither 
good  angels  nor  the  opposite  class,  but,  as  mathematicians  say, 
"  in  the  mean  proportion." 

As  I  have  before  insinuated,  I  was  a  sort  of  family  scape- 
grace among  them,  and  one  on  whose  head  all  the  domestic 
10  *  (113) 


114  AUNT    MARY. 

trespasses  were  regularly  visited,  either  by  real,  actual  desert 
or  by  imputation. 

For  this  order  of  things,  there  was,  I  confess,  a  very  solid 
and  serious  foundation,  in  the  constitution  of  my  mind. 
Whether  I  was  born  under  some  cross-eyed  planet,  or  whether 
I  was  fairy-smitten  in  my  cradle,  certain  it  is  that  I  was,  from 
the  dawn  of  existence,  a  sort  of  "  Murad  the  Unlucky;"  an 
out-of-time,  out-of-place,  out-of-form  sort  of  a  boy,  with  .whom 
nothing  prospered. 

Who  always  left  open  doors  in  cold  weather  ?  It  was  Henry. 
"Who  was  sure  to  upset  his  coffee  cup  at  breakfast,  or  to  knock 
over  his  tumbler  at  dinner,  or  to  prostrate  saltcellar,  pepper 
box,  and  mustard  pot,  if  he  only  happened  to  move  his  arm? 
Why,  Henry.  "Who  was  plate  breaker  general  for  the  family  ? 
It  was  Henry.  "Who  tangled  mamma's  silks  and  cottons,  and 
tore  up  the  last  newspaper  for  papa,  or  threw  down  old 
Phoebe's  clothes  horse,  with  all  her  clean  ironing  thereupon  ? 
Why,  Henry. 

N< >\\  all  this  was  no  "  malice  prepense  "  in  me,  for  I  solemnly 
believe  that  I  was  the  best-natured  boy  in  the  world;  but 
something  was  the  matter  with  the  attraction  of  cohesion,  or 
the  attraction  of  gravitation  —  with  the  general  dispensation 
of  matter  around  me  —  that,  let  me  do  what  I  would,  things 
would  fall  down,  and  break,  or  be  torn  and  damaged,  if  I  only 
came  near  them  ;  and  my  unluckiness  in  any  matter  seemed 
in  exact   proportion  to  my  cart 'fulness. 

If  any   body   in  tin-   room   with  me   had   a   headache,  or 

any  kind  of  uervous    irritability,  which  made  it  particularly 

jary  for  others  to  be  quiet,  and  if  I  was  in  an  especial. 

uV~ilr  "I",»  the  same,  I  was  sure,  while  stepping  around  on 

tiptoe,  to  fall  headlong  over  a  chair,  which  would  give  an 


AUNT   MARY.  115 

introductory  push  to  the  shovel,  which  would  fall  upon  the 
tongs,  which  would  animate  the  poker,  and  all  together  would 
set  in  action  two  or  three  sticks  of  wood,  and  down  they  would 
come  together,  with  just  that  hearty,  sociable  sort  of  racket, 
which  showed  that  they  were  disposed  to  make  as  much  of 
the  opportunity  as  possible. 

In  the  same  manner,  every  thing  that  came  into  my  hand, 
or  was  at  all  connected  with  me,  was  sure  to  lose  by  it.  If  I 
rejoiced  in  a  clean  apron  in  the  morning,  I  was  sure  to  make 
a  full-length  prostration  thereupon  on  my  way  to  school,  and 
come  home  nothing  better,  but  rather  worse.  If  I  was  sent 
on  an  errand,  I  was  sure  either  to  lose  my  money  in  going,  or 
my  purchases  in  returning  ;  and  on  these  occasions  my  mother 
would  often  comfort  me  with  the  reflection,  that  it  was  well 
that  my  ears  were  fastened  to  my  head,  or  I  should  lose  them 
too.  Of  course,  I  was  a  fair  mark  for  the  exhortatory  powers, 
not  only  of  my  parents,  but  of  all  my  aunts,  uncles,  and  cous- 
ins, to  the  third  and  fourth  generation,  who  ceased  not  to 
reprove,  rebuke,  and  exhort  with  all  long-suffering  and  doc- 
trine. 

All  this  would  have  been  very  well  if  nature  had  not  gifted 
me  with  a  very  unnecessary  and  uncomfortable  capacity  of 
feeling,  which,  like  a  refined  ear  for  music,  is  undesirable, 
because,  in  this  world,  one  meets  with  discord  ninety-nine 
times  where  it  meets  with  harmony  once.  Much,  therefore,  as 
I  furnished  occasion  to  be  scolded  at,  I  never  became  used  to 
scolding,  so  that  I  was  just  as  much  galled  by  it  the/orfy-first 
time  as  the  first.  There  was  no  such  thing  as  philosophy  in 
me  :  I  had  just  that  unreasonable  heart  which  is  not  conformed 
unto  the  nature  of  things,  neither  indeed  can  be.  I  was 
timid,  and  shrinking,  and  proud;  I  was  nothing  to  any  one 


116  AUNT    MART. 

around  me  but  an  awkward,  unlucky  boy  ;  nothing  to  my 
parents  but  one  of  half  a  dozen  children,  whose  faces  were  to 
be  washed  and  stockings  mended  on  Saturday  afternoon.  If  I 
was  very  sick,  I  had  medicine  and  the  doctor;  if  I  was  a 
little  sick,  I  was  exhorted  unto  patience  ;  and  if  I  was  sick  at 
heart,  I  was  left  to  prescribe  for  myself. 

Now,  all  this  was  very  well :  what  should  a  child  need  but 
meat,  and  drink,  and  room  to  play,  and  a  school  to  teach  him 
reading  and  writing,  and  somebody  to  take  care  of  him  when 
sick  "J     Certainly,  nothing. 

But  the  feelings  of  grown-up  children  exist  in  the  mind  of 
little  ones  oftener  than  is  supposed  ;  and  I  had,  even  at  this 
early  day,  the  same  keen  sense  of  all  that  touched  the  heart 
wrong  ;  the  same  longing  for  something  which  should  touch  it 
aright ;  the  same  discontent,  with  latent,  matter-of-course  affec- 
tion, and  the  same  craving  for  sympathy,  which  has  been  the 
unprofitable  fashion  of  this  world  in  all  ages.  And  no  human 
being  possessing  such  constitutionals  has  a  better  chance  of 
being  made  unhappy  by  them  than  the  backward,  uninterest- 
ing, wrong-doing  child.  We  can  all  sympathize,  to  some  ex- 
tent, with  men  and  women;  but  how  few  can  go  back  to  the 
sympathies  of  childhood;  can  understand  the  desolate  insig- 
nificance of  not  being  one  of  the  grown-up  people;  of  being 
Bent  to  bed,  to  be  out  of  the  way  in  the  evening,  and  to  school, 
to  be  out  of  the  way  in  the  morning;  of  manifold  similar 
grievances  and  distresses,  which  the  child  has  no  elocution  to 
sel  forth,  and  the  grown  person  no  imagination  to  conceive. 

When  1  was  seven  years  old,  I  was  told  one  morning,  with 
considerable  domestic  acclamation,  that  Aunt  Mary  was  corn- 
in-  to  make  us  a  visil  ;  and  so,  when  the  carriage  that  brought 
her  stopped  at  our  door,  I  pulled  off  my  dirty  apron,  and  ran 


AUNT   MART.  117 

in  among  the  crowd  of  brothers  and  sisters  to  see  what  was 
coming.  I  shall  not  describe  her  first  appearance,  for,  as  I 
think  of  her,  I  begin  to  grow  somewhat  sentimental,  in  spite 
of  my  spectacles,  and  might,  perhaps,  talk  a  little  nonsense. 

Perhaps  every  man,  whether  married  or  unmarried,  who 
has  lived  to  the  age  of  fifty  or  thereabouts,  has  seen  some 
woman  who,  in  his  mind,  is  the  woman,  in  distinction  from  all 
others.  She  may  not  have  been  a  relative  ;  she  may  not  have 
been  a  wife  ;  she  may  simply  have  shone  on  him  from  afar ; 
she  may  be  remembered  in  the  distance  of  years  as  a  star  that 
is  set,  as  music  that  is  hushed,  as  beauty  and  loveliness  faded 
forever  ;  but  remembered  she  is  with  interest,  with  fervor,  with 
enthusiasm  ;  with  all  that  heart  can  feel,  and  more  than  words 
can  tell. 

To  me  there  has  been  but  one  such,  and  that  is  she  whom 
I  describe.  "  Was  she  beautiful  ?  "  you  ask.  I  also  will  ask 
you  one  question :  "  If  an  angel  from  heaven  should  dwell  in 
human  form,  and  animate  any  human  face,  would  not  that 
face  be  lovely  ?  It  might  not  be  beautiful,  but  would  it  not  be 
lovely  ?  "     She  was  not  beautiful  except  after  this  fashion. 

How  well  I  remember  her,  as  she  used  sometimes  to  sit 
thinking,  with  her  head  resting  on  her  hand,  her  face  mild  and 
placid,  with  a  quiet  October  sunshine  in  her  blue  eyes,  and  an 
ever-present  smile  over  her  whole  countenance.  I  remember 
the  sudden  sweetness  of  look  when  any  one  spoke  to  her ;  the 
prompt  attention,  the  quick  comprehension  of  things  before 
you  uttered  them,  the  obliging  readiness  to  leave  for  you  what- 
ever she  was  doing. 

To  those  who  mistake  occasional  pensiveness  for  melancholy, 
it  might  seem  strange  to  say  that  my  Aunt  Mary  was  always 
happy.    Yet  she  was  so.     Her  spirits  never  rose  to  buoyancy, 


118  AUNT    MARY. 

and  never  sunk  to  despondency.  I  know  that  it  is  an  article 
in  the  sentimental  confession  of  faith  that  such  a  character 
cannot  be  interesting.  For  this  impression  there  is  some 
ground.  The  placidity  of  a  medium  commonplace  mind  is 
uninteresting,  but  the  placidity  of  a  strong  and  well-governed 
one  borders  on  the  sublime.  Mutability  of  emotion  character- 
izea  interior  orders  of  being;  but  He  who  combines  all  inter- 
est, all  excitement,  all  perfection,  is  "the  same  yesterday,  to- 
day, and  forever."  And  if  there  be  any  thing  sublime  in  the 
idea  of  an  almighty  mind,  in  perfect  peace  itself,  and,  there- 
fore, at  leisure  to  bestow  all  its  energies  on  the  wants  of  oth- 
er-, there  is  at  least  a  reflection  of  the  same  sublimity  in  the 
character  of  that  human  being  who  has  so  quieted  and  gov- 
erned the  world  within,  that  nothing  is  left  to  absorb  sympa- 
thy or  distract  attention  from  those  around. 

Such  a  woman  was  my  Aunt  Mary.  Her  placidity  was  not 
bo  much  the  result  of  temperament  as  of  choice.  She  had 
every  susceptibility  of  suffering  incident  to  the  noblest  and 
most  d<licate  construction  of  mind;  but  they  had  been  so 
directed,  that,  instead  of  concentrating  thought  on  self,  they 
had  prepared  her  to  understand  and  feel  for  others. 

She  w;iN  beyond  all  things  else,  a  sympathetic  person,  and 
her  character,  like  the  green  in  a  landscape,  was  less  remark- 
able  t'«>r  wh;it  it  was  in  itself  than  for  its  perfect  and  beautiful 
harmony  with  all   the  coloring  and  shading  around  it. 

<  )ther  women  have  had  talents,  others  have  been  good  ;  but 
no  woman  that  ever  I  knew  possessed  goodness  and  talent  in 
anion  with  Buch  an  intuitive  perception  of  feelings,  and  such 
a  faculty  of  instantaneous  adaptation  to  them.  The  most 
troublesome  thing  in  this  world  is  to  be  condemned  to  the 
society  of  a    person  who  can   never  understand  any  thing  you 


AUNT    MART.  119 

say  unless  you  say  the  whole  of  it,  making  your  commas  and 
periods  as  you  go  along  ;  and  the  most  desirable  thing  in  the 
world  is  to  live  with  a  person  who  saves  you  all  the  trouble  of 
talking,  by  knowing  just  what  you  mean  before  you  begin  to 
speak. 

Something  of  this  kind  of  talent  I  began  to  feel,  to  my  great 
relief,  when  Aunt  Mary  came  into  the  family.  I  remember 
the  very  first  evening,  as  she  sat  by  the  hearth,  surrounded 
by  all  the  family,  her  eye  glanced  on  me  with  an  expression 
that  let  me  know  she  saw  me  ;  and  when  the  clock  struck 
eight,  and  my  mother  proclaimed  that  it  was  my  bedtime,  my 
countenance  fell  as  I  moved  sorrowfully  from  the  back  of  her 
rocking  chair,  and  thought  how  many  beautiful  stories  Aunt 
Mary  would  tell  after  I  was  gone  to  bed.  She  turned  towards 
me  with  such  a  look  of  real  understanding,  such  an  evident 
insight  into  the  case,  that  I  went  into  banishment  with  a  light- 
er heart  than  ever  I  did  before.  How  very  contrary  is  the 
obstinate  estimate  of  the  heart  to  the  rational  estimate  of 
worldly  wisdom !  Are  there  not  some  who  can  remember 
when  one  word,  one  look,  or  even  the  withholding  of  a  word, 
has  drawn  their  heart  more  to  a  person  than  all  the  substantial 
favors  in  the  world  ?  By  ordinary  acceptation,  substantial 
kindness  respects  the  necessaries  of  animal  existence  ;  while 
those  wants  which  are  peculiar  to  mind,  and  will  exist  with  it 
forever,  by  equally  correct  classification,  are  designated  as 
sentimental  ones,  the  supply  of  which,  though  it  will  excite 
more  gratitude  in  fact,  ought  not  to  in  theory.  Before  Aunt 
Mary  had  lived  with  us  a  month,  I  loved  her  beyond  any  body 
in  the  world ;  and  a  utilitarian  would  have  been  amused  in 
ciphering  %out  the  amount  of  favors  which  produced  this  result. 
It  was  a  look  —  a  word  —  a  smile  :  it  was  that  she  seemed 


120  AUNT   MARY. 

pleased  with  my  new  kite  ;  that  she  rejoiced  with  me  when  I 
learned  to  spin  a  top  ;  that  she  alone  seemed  to  estimate  my 
proficiency  in  playing  ball  and  marbles  ;  that  she  never  looked 
at  all  vexed  when  I  upset  her  workbox  upon  the  floor ;  that 
Bhe  received  all  my  awkward  gallantry  and  mal-adroit  help- 
ful ness  as  if  it  had  been  in  the  best  taste  in  the  world  ;  that 
When  she  was  sick,  she  insisted  on  letting  me  wait  on  her, 
though  I  made  my  customary  havoc  among  the  pitchers  and 
tamblers  of  her  room,  and  displayed,  through  my  zeal  to 
please,  a  more  than  ordinary  share  of  insufficiency  for  the 
Btation.  She  also  was  the  only  person  that  ever  I  conversed 
with,  and  I  used  to  wonder  how  any  body  who  could  talk  all 
about  matters  and  things  with  grown-up  persons  could  talk  so 
sensibly  about  marbles,  and  hoops,  and  skates,  and  all  sorts  of 
little-boy  matters;  and  I  will  say,  by  the  by,  that  the  same 
sort  of  speculation  has  often  occurred  to  the  minds  of  older 
people  in  connection  with  her.  She  knew  the  value  of  varied 
information  in  making  a  woman,  not  a  pedant,  but  a  sym- 
pathetic, companionable  being ;  and  such  she  was  to  almost 
^xrvy  class  of  mind. 

She  had,  too,  the  faculty  of  drawing  others  up  to  her  level 
in  conversation,  so  that  I  would  often  find  myself  going  on  in 
mosi  profound  style  while  talking  with  her,  and  would  wonder, 
when  I  was  through,  whether  I  was  really  a  little  boy  still. 

When  Bhe  had  enlightened  us  many  months,  the  time  came 
for  her  to  take  leave,  and  she  besought  my  mother  to  give  me 
to  her  for  company.  All  the  family  wondered  what  she  could 
find  to  lik<-  in  Henry  ;  but  if  she  did  like  me,  it  was  no  mat- 
ter,  and  bo  was  the  case  disposed  of. 

From  that  time  I  lived  with  her — and  there  are  some  per- 
v.  ho  can  make  the  word  lice  signify  much  more  than  it 


AUNT    MARY.  121 

commonly  does  —  and  she  wrought  on  my  character  all  those 
miracles  which  benevolent  genius  can  work.  She  quieted  my 
heart,  directed  my  feelings,  unfolded  my  mind,  and  educated 
me,  not  harshly  or  by  force,  but  as  the  blessed  sunshine  edu- 
cates the  flower,  into  full  and  perfect  life  ;  and  when  all  that 
was  mortal  of  her  died  to  this  world,  her  words  and  deeds  of 
unutterable  love  shed  a  twilight  around  her  memory  that  will 
fade  only  in  the  brightness  of  heaven. 
11 


FRANKNESS 


There  is  one  kind  of  frankness,  which  is  the  result  of 
perfect  unsuspiciousness,  and  which  requires  a  measure  of 
ignorance  of  the  world  and  of  life  :  this  kind  appeals  to  our 
generosity  and  tenderness.  There  is  another,  which  is  the 
frankness  of  a  strong  but  pure  mind,  acquainted  with  life, 
clear  in  its  discrimination  and  upright  in  its  intention,  yet 
disguise  or  concealment:  this  kind  excites  respect. 
The  first  seems  to  proceed  simply  from  impulse,  the  second 
from  impulse  and  reflection  united;  the  first  proceeds,  in  a 
measure,  from  ignorance,  the  second  from  knowledge;  the 
6rst  is  born  from  an  undoubting  confidence  in  others,  the 
second  from  a  virtuous  and  well-grounded  reliance  on  one's 
self. 

Now,  if  you  suppose  that  this  is  the  beginning  of  a  sermon 

or  of  a   fourth  of  July  oration,  you  are  very  much  mistaken, 

though,  i  musl  confess,  it  hath  rather  an  uncertain  sound.     I 

merely  prefaced  it  to  a  little  sketch  of  character,  which  you 

Look   at    if  you    please,  though  I   am  not  sure   you   will 

like     it. 

It  was  Baid  of  Alice  11.  thai  -lie  had  the  mind  of  a  man, 
the  1m  :ir:  of  a  woman,  and  the  face  of  an  angel  —  a  combina- 
tion that  all  my  readers  will  think  peculiarly  happy. 

(122) 


FRANKNESS.  123 

There  never  was  a  woman  who  was  so  unlike  the  mass  of 
society  in  her  modes  of  thinking  and  acting,  yet  so  generally 
popular.  But  the  most  remarkable  thing  about  her  was  her 
proud  superiority  to  all  disguise,  in  thought,  word,  and  deed. 
She  pleased  you  ;  for  she  spoke  out  a  hundred  things  that 
you  would  conceal,  and  spoke  them  with  a  dignified  assurance 
that  made  you  wonder  that  you  had  ever  hesitated  to  say  them 
yourself.  Nor  did  this  unreserve  appear  like  the  weakness 
of  one  who  could  not  conceal,  or  like  a  determination  to  make 
war  on  the  forms  of  society.  It  was  rather  a  calm,  well- 
guided  integrity,  regulated  by  a  just  sense  of  propriety  ; 
knowing  when  to  be"  silent,  but  speaking  the  truth  when  it 
spoke  at  all. 

Her  extraordinary  frankness  often  beguiled  superficial  ob- 
servers into  supposing  themselves  fully  acquainted  with  her 
long  before  they  were  so,  as  the  beautiful  transparency  of 
some  lakes  is  said  to  deceive  the  eye  as  to  their  depth ; 
yet  the  longer  you  knew  her,  the  more  A'ariety  and  com- 
pass of  character  appeared  through  the  same  transparent  me- 
dium. But  you  may  just  visit  Miss  Alice  for  half  an  hour 
to-night,  and  judge  for  yourselves.  You  may  walk  into  this 
little  parlor.  There  sits  Miss  Alice  on  that  sofa,  sewing  a 
pair  of  lace  sleeves  into  a  satin  dress,  in  which  peculiarly  an- 
gelic employment  she  may  persevere  till  we  have  finished 
another  sketch. 

Do  you  see  that  pretty  little  lady,  with  sparkling  eyes, 
elastic  form,  and  beautiful  hand  and  foot,  sitting  opposite  to 
her  ?  She  is  a  belle  :  the  character  is  written  in  her  face  — 
it  sparkles  from  her  eye  —  it  dimples  in  her  smile,  and  per- 
vades the  whole  woman. 

But  there  —  Alice  has  risen,  and  is  gone  to  the  mirror,  and 


124  FRANKNESS. 

is  arranging  the  finest  auburn  hair  in  the  world  in  the  most 
tasteful  manner.  The  little  lady  watches  every  motion  as 
comically  as  a  kitten  watches  a  pin-ball. 

"  It  is  all  in  vain  to  deny  it,  Alice  —  you  are  really  anxious 
to  look  pretty  this  evening,"  said  she. 

"  I  certainly  am,"  said  Alice,  quietly. 

"  Ay,  and  you  hope  you  shall  please  Mr.  A.  and  Mr.  B.," 
said  the  little  accusing  angel. 

"  Certainly  I  do,"  said  Alice,  as  she  twisted  her  fingers  in  a 
beautiful  curl. 

"  Well,  I  would  not  tell  of  it,  Alice,  if  I  did." 

"  Then  you  should  not  ask  me,"  said  Alice. 

"  I  declare  I  Alice  !  " 

"And  what  do  you  declare  ?" 

"  I  never  saw  such  a  girl  as  you  are  !  " 

"  Very  likely,"  said  Alice,  stooping  to  pick  up  a  pin. 

"  Well,  for  my  part,"  said  the  little  lady,  "  I  never  would 
take  any  pains  to  make  any  body  like  me  — particularly  a  gen- 
tleman." 

"  I  would,"  said  Alice,  "  if  they  would  not  like  me  without." 

"  Why,  Alice  !  I  should  not  think  you  were  so  fond  of  ad- 
miration." 

"  I  like  to  be  admired  very  much,"  said  Alice,  returning  to 
the  sofa,  "  and  I  suppose  every  body  else  does." 

"  1  don't  care  about  admiration,"  said  the  little  lady.  "I 
would  be  as  well  satisfied  that  people  shouldn't  like  me  as  that 
they  should." 

"  Then,  cousin,  I  think  it's  a  pity  we  all  like  you  so  well," 
said  Alice,  with  a  good-humored  smile.  If  Miss  Alice  had 
penetration,  she  never  made  a  severe  use  of  it. 

"  But  really,  cousin,"  said  the  little  lady,  "I  should  not 


FRANKNESS.  125 

think  such  a  girl  as  you  would  think  any  thing  about  dress,  or 
admiration,  and  all  that." 

"  I  don't  know  what  sort  of  a  girl  you  think  I  am,"  said 
Alice,  "  but,  for  my  own  part,  /only  pretend  to  be  a  common 
human  being,  and  am  not  ashamed  of  common  human  feel- 
ings. If  God  has  made  us  so  that  we  love  admiration,  why 
should  we  not  honestly  say  so.  I  love  it — you  love  it  — 
every  body  loves  it ;  and  why  should  not  every  body  say  it  ?  " 

"  Why,  yes,"  said  the  little  lady,  "  I  suppose  every  body  has 
a  —  has  a  —  a  general  love  for  admiration.  I  am  willing  to 
acknowledge  that  i"  have ;  but " 

"  But  you  have  no  love  for  it  in  particular,"  said  Alice,  "  I 
suppose  you  mean  to  say ;  that  is  just  the  way  the  matter  is 
commonly  disposed  of.  Every  body  is  willing  to  acknowledge 
a  general  wish  for  the  good  opinion  of  others,  but  half  the 
world  are  ashamed  to  own  it  when  it  comes  to  a  particular  case. 
Now  I  have  made  up  my  mind,  that  if  it  is  correct  in  general, 
it  is  correct  in  particular ;  and  I  mean  to  own  it  both  ways." 

"  But,  somehow,  it  seems  mean,"  said  the  little  lady. 

"  It  is  mean  to  live  for  it,  to  be  selfishly  engrossed  in  it,  but 
not  mean  to  enjoy  it  when  it  comes,  or  even  to  seek  it,  if  we 
neglect  no  higher  interest  in  doing  so.  All  that  God  made  us 
to  feel  is  dignified  and  pure,  unless  we  pervert  it." 

"  But,  Alice,  I  never  heard  any  person  speak  out  so  frankly 
as  you  do." 

"  Almost  all  that  is  innocent  and  natural  may  be  spoken 
out ;  and  as  for  that  which  is  not  innocent  and  natural,  it  ouo;ht 
not  even  to  be  thought." 

"  But  can  every  thing  be  spoken  that  may  be  thought  ?  " 
said  the  lady. 

"  No ;  we  have  an  instinct  which  teaches  us  to  be  silent 
11* 


126  FRANKNESS. 

sometimes  :  but,  if  we  speak  at  all,  let  it  be  in  simplicity  and 
sincerity." 

"  Now,  for  instance,  Alice,"  said  the  lady,  "  it  is  very  inno- 
cent and  natural,  as  you  say,  to  think  this,  that,  and  the  other 
nice  thing  of  yourself,  especially  when  every  body  is  telling 
you  of  it ;  now  would  you  speak  the  truth  if  any  one  asked 
you  on  this  point  ?  " 

"  If  it  were  a  person  who  had  a  right  to  ask,  and  if  it  were 
a  proper  time  and  place,  I  would,"  said  Alice. 

"  Well,  then,"  said  the  bright  lady,  "  I  ask  you,  Alice,  in 
this  very  proper  time  and  place,  do  you  think  that  you  are 
handsome  ?  " 

"  Now,  I  suppose  you  expect  me  to  make  a  courtesy  to 
every  chair  in  the  room  before  I  answer,"  said  Alice  ;  "  but, 
dispensing  with  that  ceremony,  I  will  tell  you  fairly,  I  think 
I  am." 

"  Do  you  think  that  you  are  good  ?  " 

"  Not  entirely,"  said  Alice. 

"  Well,  but  don't  you  think  you  are  better  than  most  peo- 
ple?" 

"  As  far  as  I  can  tell,  I  think  I  am  better  than  some  people  ; 
but  really,  cousin,  I  don't  trust  my  own  judgment  in  this  mat- 
ter," said  Alice. 

"  Well,  Alice,  one  more  question.  Do  you  think  James 
Martyrs  likes  you  or  me  best  ?  " 

"  I  do  not  know,"  said  Alice. 

"  I  did  not  ask  you  what  you  knew,  but  what  you 
thought,"  said  the  lady  ;  "  you  must  have  some  thought 
about  it." 

"  Well,  then,  I  think  he  likes  me  best,"  said  Alice. 

Just  then  the  door  opened,  and  in  walked   the  identical 


FRANKNESS.  127 

James  Martyrs.  Alice  blushed,  looked  a  little  comical,  and 
went  on  with  her  sewing,  while  the  little  lady  began,  — 

"  Really,  Mr.  James,  I  wish  you  had  come  a  minute  sooner, 
to  hear  Alice's  confessions." 

"  What  has  she  confessed  ?  "  said  James. 

"  Why,  that  she  is  handsomer  and  better  than  most  folks." 

"  That's  nothing  to  be  ashamed  of,"  said  James. 

"  0,  that's  not  all ;  she  wants  to  look  pretty,  and  loves  to  be 
admired,  and  all " 

"  It  sounds  very  much  like  her,"  said  James,  looking  at  Alice. 

"  O,  but,  besides  that,"  said  the  lady,  "  she  has  been  preach- 
ing a  discourse  in  justification  of  vanity  and  self-love " 

"  And  next  time  you  shall  take  notes  when  I  preach,"  said 
Alice,  "  for  I  don't  think  your  memory  is  remarkably  happy." 

"  You  see,  James,"  said  the  lady,  "  that  Alice  makes  it  a 
point  to  say  exactly  the  truth  when  she  speaks  at  all,  and  I've 
been  puzzling  'her  with  questions.  I  really  wish  you  would 
ask  her  some,  and  see  what  she  will  say.  But,  mercy  !  there 
is  Uncle  C.  come  to  take  me  to  ride.  I  must  run."  And 
off  flew  the  little  humming  bird,  leaving  James  and  Alice 
tete-a-tete. 

"  There  really  is  one  question "  said  James,  clearing 

his  voice. 

Alice  looked  up. 

"  There  is  one  question,  Alice,  which  I  wish  you  would  an- 
swer." 

Alice  did  not  inquire  what  the  question  was,  but  began  to 
look  very  solemn  ;  and  just  then  the  door  was  shut  —  and  so 
I  never  knew  what  the  question  was  —  only  I  observed  that 
James  Martyrs  seemed  in  some  seventh  heaven  for  a  week  af- 
terwards, and  —  and  —  you  can  finish  for  yourself,  lady. 


THE    SABBATH. 


SKETCHES  FROM  A  NOTE  BOOK  OF  AN 
ELDERLY  GENTLEMAN. 


The  Puritan  Sabbath  —  is  there  such  a  thing  existing  now, 
or  has  it  gone  with  the  things  that  were,  to  be  looked  at  as  a 
curiosity  in  the  museum  of  the  past  ?  Can  any  one,  in  mem- 
ory, take  himself  back  to  the  unbroken  stillness  of  that  day, 
and  recall  the  sense  of  religious  awe  which  seemed  to  brood 
in  the  very  atmosphere,  checking  the  merry  laugh  of  child- 
hood, and  chaining  in  unwonted  stillness  the  tongue  of  vola- 
tile youth,  and  imparting  even  to  the  sunshine  of  heaven,  and 
the  unconscious  notes  of  animals,  a  tone  of  its  own  gravity 
and  repose  ?  If  you  cannot  remember  these  things,  go  back 
with  me  to  the  verge  of  early  boyhood,  and  live  with  me  one 
of  the  Sabbaths  that  I  have  spent  beneath  the  roof  of  my  un- 
cle, Phineas  Fletcher. 

Imagine  the  long  sunny  hours  of  a  Saturday  afternoon  in- 
sensibly slipping  away,  as  we  youngsters  are  exploring  the 
length  and  breadth  of  a  trout  stream,  or  chasing  gray  squir- 
rels, or  building  mud  milldaras  in  the  brook.  The  sun  sinks 
lower  and  lower,  but  we  still  think  it  does  not  want  half  an 

(123) 


THE    SABBATH.  129 

hour  to  sundown.  At  last,  he  so  evidently  is  really  going 
down,  that  there  is  no  room  for  scepticism  or  latitude  of  opin- 
ion on  the  subject ;  and  with  many  a  lingering  regret,  wre  be- 
gan to  put  away  our  fish-hooks,  and  hang  our  hoops  over  our 
arm,  preparatory  to  trudging  homeward. 

"  0  Henry,  don't  you  wish  that  Saturday  afternoons  lasted 
longer  ?  "  said  little  John  to  me. 

"  I  do,"  says  Cousin  Bill,  who  was  never  the  boy  to  mince 
matters  in  giving  his  sentiments  ;  "  and  I  wouldn't  care  if 
Sunday  didn't  come  but  once  a  year." 

"  O  Bill,  that's  wicked,  I'm  afraid,"  says  little  conscientious 
Susan,  who,  with  her  doll  in  hand,  was  coming  home  from  a 
Saturday  afternoon  visit. 

"  Can't  help  it,"  says  Bill,  catching  Susan's  bag,  and  tossing 
it  in  the  air  ;  "  I  never  did  like  to  sit  still,  and  that's  why  I 
hate  Sundays." 

"  Hate  Sundays  !  O  Bill !  Why,  Aunt  Kezzy  says  heaven 
is  an  eternal  Sabbath  —  only  think  of  that !  " 

"  Well,  I  know  I  must  be  pretty  different  from  what  I  am 
now  before  I  could  sit  still  forever,"  said  Bill,  in  a  low'er  and 
somewhat  disconcerted  tone,  as  if  admitting  the  force  of  the 
consideration. 

The  rest  of  us  began  to  look  very  grave,  and  to  think 
that  we  must  get  to  liking  Sunday  some  time  or  other, 
or  it  would  be  a  very  bad  thing  for  us.  As  we  drew  near 
the  dwelling,  the  compact  and  business-like  form  of  Aunt 
Kezzy  was  seen  emerging  from  the  house  to  hasten  our  ap- 
proach. 

"  How  often  have  I  told  you,  young  ones,  not  to  stay  out 
after  sundown  on  Saturday  night  ?  Don't  you  know  it's  the 
•came  as  Sunday,  you  wicked  children,  you  ?     Come  right  into 


130  TIIE    SABBATH. 

the  house,  every  one  of  you,  and  never  let  me  hear  of  such  a 
thing  again." 

This  was  Aunt  Kezzy's  regular  exordium  every  Saturday 
night ;  for  we  children,  being  blinded,  as  she  supposed,  by 
natural  depravity,  always  made  strange  mistakes  in  reckoning 
time  on  .Saturday  afternoons.  After  being  duly  suppered  and 
scrubbed,  we  were  enjoined  to  go  to  bed,  and  remember  that 
to-morrow  was  Sunday,  and  that  we  must  not  laugh  and  play 
in  the  morning.  With  many  a  sorrowful  look  did  Susan  de- 
posit her  doll  in  the  chest,  and  give  one  lingering  glance  at  the 
patchwork  she  Avas  piecing  for  dolly's  bed,  while  William, 
John,  and  myself  emptied  our  pockets  of  all  superfluous  fish- 
hooks, bits  of  twine,  popguns,  slices  of  potato,  marbles,  and 
all  the  various  items  of  boy  property,  which,  to  keep  us  from 
temptation,  were  taken  into  Aunt  Kezzy's  safe  keeping  over 
Sunday. 

My  Uncle  Phineas  was  a  man  of  great  exactness,  and 
Sunday  was  the  centre  of  his  whole  worldly  and  religious 
system.  Every  thing  with  regard  to  his  worldly  business  was 
so  arranged  that  by  Saturday  noon  it  seemed  to  come  to  a 
close  of  itself.  All  his  accounts  were  looked  over,  his  work- 
men paid,  all  borrowed  things  returned,  and  lent  things  sent 
after,  and  every  tool  and  article  belonging  to  the  farm  was 
returned  to  its  own  place  at  exactly  such  an  hour  every  Satur- 
day afternoon,  and  an  hour  before  sundown  every  item  of 
preparation,  even  to  the  blacking  of  his  Sunday  shoes  and  the 
brushing  of  his  Sunday  coat,  was  entirely  concluded  ;  and  at 
the  going  down  of  the  sun,  the  stillness  of  the  Sabbath  seemed 
to  settle  down  over  the  whole  dwelling. 

And  now  it  is  Sunday  morning;  and  though  all  without  is 
fragrance,  and  motion,  and  beauty,   the  dewdrops  are  twin- 


THE    SABBATH.  131 

kling,  butterflies  fluttering,  and  merry  birds  carolling  and  rack- 
eting as  if  they  never  could  sing  loud  or  fast  enough,  yet 
within  there  is  such  a  stillness  that  the  tick  of  the  tall  ma- 
hogany clock  is  audible  through  the  whole  house,  and  the  buzz 
of  the  blue  flies,  as  they  whiz  along  up  and  down  the  window 
panes,  is  a  distinct  item  of  hearing.  Look  into  the  best  front 
room,  and  you  may  see  the  upright  form  of  my  Uncle  Phin- 
eas,  in  his  immaculate  Sunday  clothes,  with  his  Bible  spread 
open  on  the  little  stand  before  him,  and  even  a  deeper  than 
usual  gravity  settling  down  over  his  toil-worn  features. 
Alongside,  in  well-brushed  Sunday  clothes,  with  clean  faces 
and  smooth  hair,  sat  the  whole  of  us  younger  people,  each 
drawn  up  in  a  chair,  with  hat  and  handkerchief,  ready  for  the 
first  stroke  of  the  bell,  while  Aunt  Kezzy,  all  trimmed,  and 
primmed,  and  made  ready  for  meeting,  sat  reading  her  psalm 
book,  only  looking  up  occasionally  to  give  an  additional  jerk 
to  some  shirt  collar,  or  the  fifteenth  pull  to  Susan's  frock,  or 
to  repress  any  straggling  looks  that  might  be  wandering  about, 
"  beholding  vanity." 

A  stranger,  in  glancing  at  Uncle  Phineas  as  he  sat  intent 
on  his  Sunday  reading,  might  have  seen  that  the  Sabbath  was 
in  his  heart  —  there  was  no  mistake  about  it.  It  was  plain 
that  he  had  put  by  all  worldly  thoughts  when  he  shut  up  his 
account  book,  and  that  his  mind  was  as  free  from  every 
earthly  association  as  his  Sunday  coat  was  from  dust.  The 
slave  of  worldliness,  who  is  driven,  by  perplexing  business  or 
adventurous  speculation,  through  the  hours  of  a  half-kept 
Sabbath  to  the  fatigues  of  another  week,  might  envy  the  un- 
broken quiet,  the  sunny  tranquillity,  which  hallowed  the 
weekly  rest  of  my  uncle. 

The  Sabbath  of  the  Puritan  Christian  was  the  golden  day, 


132  THE    SABBATH. 

and  all  its  associations,  and  all  its  thoughts,  words,  and  deeds, 
were  so  entirely  distinct  from  the  ordinary  material  of  life, 
that  it  was  to  him  a  sort  of  weekly  translation  —  a  quitting 
of  this  world  to  sojourn  a  day  in  a  better ;  and  year  after 
year,  as  each  Sabbath  set  its  seal  on  the  completed  labors  of  a 
week,  the  pilgrim  felt  that  one  more  stage  of  his  earthly  jour- 
ney was  completed,  and  that  he  was  one  week  nearer  to  his 
eternal  rest.  And  as  years,  with  their  changes,  came  on,  and 
the  strong  man  grew  old,  and  missed,  one  after  another,  fa- 
miliar forms  that  had  risen  around  his  earlier  years,  the  face 
of  the  Sabbath  became  like  that  of  an  old  and  tried  friend, 
carrying  him  back  to  the  scenes  of  his  youth,  and  connecting 
him  with  scenes  long  gone  by,  restoring  to  him  the  dew  and 
freshness  of  brighter  and  more  buoyant  days. 

Viewed  simply  as  an  institution  for  a  Christian  and  mature 
mind,  nothing  could  be  more  perfect  than  the  Puritan  Sab- 
bath :  if  it  had  any  failing,  it  was  in  the  want  of  adaptation 
to  children,  and  to  those  not  interested  in  its  peculiar  duties. 
If  you  had  been  in  the  dwelling  of  my  uncle  of  a  Sabbath 
morning,  you  must  have  found  the  unbroken  stillness  delight- 
ful ;  the  calm  and  quiet  must  have  soothed  and  disposed  you 
for  contemplation,  and  the  evident  appearance  of  single- 
hearted  devotion  to  the  duties  of  the  day  in  the  elder  part  of 
the  family  must  have  been  a  striking  addition  to  the  picture. 
But,  then,  if  your  eye  had  watched  attentively  the  motions 
of  us  juveniles,  you  might  have  seen  that  what  was  so  very 
invigorating  to  the  disciplined  Christian  was  a  weariness  to 
young  flesh  and  bones.  Then  there  was  not,  as  now,  the 
intellectual  relaxation  afforded  by  the  Sunday  school,  with  its 
various  forms  of  religious  exercise,  its  thousand  modes  of 
interesting  and  useful  information.     Our  whole  stock  in  this 


THE    SABBATH.  133 

line  was  the  Bible  and  Primer,  and  these  were  our  main  de- 
pendence for  whiling  away  the  tedious  hours  between  our 
early  breakfast  and  the  signal  for  meeting.  How  often  was 
our  invention  stretched  to  find  wherewithal  to  keep  up  our 
stock  of  excitement  in  a  line  with  the  duties  of  the  day  !  For 
the  first  half  hour,  perhaps,  a  story  in  the  Bible  answered 
our  purpose  very  well ;  but,  having  despatched  the  history  of 
Joseph,  or  the  story  of  the  ten  plagues,  we  then  took  to  the 
Primer  :  and  then  there  was,  first,  the  looking  over  the  system 
of  theological  and  ethical  teaching,  commencing,  "In  Adam's 
fall  we  sinned  all,"  and  extending  through  three  or  four  pages 
of  pictorial  and  poetic  embellishment.  Next  was  the  death  of 
John  Rogers,  who  was  burned  at  Smithfield ;  and  for  a  while 
we  could  entertain  ourselves  with  counting  all  his  "  nine  chil- 
dren and  one  at  the  breast,"  as  in  the  picture  they  stand  in  a 
regular  row,  like  a  pair  of  stairs.  These  being  done,  came 
miscellaneous  exercises  of  our  own  invention,  such  as  count- 
ing all  the  psalms  in  the  psalm  book,  backward  and  forward, 
to  and  from  the  Doxology,  or  numbering  the  books  in  the 
Bible,  or  some  other  such  device  as  we  deemed  within  the 
pale  of  religious  employments.  When  all  these  failed,  and  it 
still  wanted  an  hour  of  meeting  time,  we  looked  up  at  the 
ceiling,  and  down  at  the  floor,  and  all  around  into  every  corner, 
to  see  what  we  could  do  next ;  and  happy  was  he  who  could 
spy  a  pin  gleaming  in  some  distant  crack,  and  forthwith  muster 
an  occasion  for  getting  down  to  pick  it  up.  Then  there  was 
the  infallible  recollection  that  we  wanted  a  drink  of  water,  as 
an  excuse  to  get  out  to  the  well ;  or  else  we  heard  some 
strange  noise  among  the  chickens,  and  insisted  that  it  was 
essential  that  we  should  see  what  was  the  matter ;  or  else 
pussy  would  jump  on  to  the  table,  when  all  of  us  would 
12 


134  THE    SABBATH. 

spring  to  drive  her  clown  ;  while  there  was  a  most  assiduous 
watching  of  the  clock  to  see  when  the  first  bell  would  ring. 
Happy  was  it  for  us,  in  the  interim,  if  we  did  not  begin  to 
look  at  each  other  and  make  up  faces,  or  slyly  slip  off  and  on 
our  shoes,  or  some  other  incipient  attempts  at  roguery,  which 
would  gradually  so  undermine  our  gravity  that  there  would  be 
some  sudden  explosion  of  merriment,  whereat  Uncle  Phineas 
would  look  up  and  say,  "  Tat,  tut"  and  Aunt  Kezzy  would 
make  a  speech  about  wicked  children  breaking  the  Sabbath 
day.  I  remember  once  how  my  cousin  Bill  got  into  deep 
disgrace  one  Sunday  by  a  roguish  trick.  lie  was  just  about 
to  close  his  Bible  with  all  sobriety,  when  snap  came  a  grass- 
hopper through  an  open  window,  and  alighted  in  the  middle 
of  the  page.  Bill  instantly  kidnapped  the  intruder,  for  so  im- 
portant an  auxiliary  in  the  way  of  employment  was  not  to  be 
despised.  Presently  we  children  looked  towards  Bill,  and 
there  he  sat,  very  demurely  reading  his  Bible,  with  the  grass- 
hopper hanging  by  one  leg  from  the  corner  of  his  mouth, 
kicking  and  sprawling,  without  in  the  least  disturbing  Master 
William's  gravity.  We  all  burst  into  an  uproarious  laugh. 
But  it  came  to  be  rather  a  serious  affair  for  Bill,  as  his  good 
father  was  in  the  practice  of  enforcing  truth  and  duty  by 
certain  modes  of  moral  suasion  much  recommended  by  Solo- 
mon, though  fallen  into  disrepute  at  the  present  day. 

This  morning  picture  may  give  a  good  specimen  of  the 
whole  livelong  Sunday,  which  presented  only  an  alternation 
of  similar  scenes  until  sunset,  when  a  universal  unchaining  of 
tongues  and  a  general  scamper  proclaimed  that  the  "  sun  was 
down." 

But,  it  may  be  asked,  what  was  the  result  of  all  this 
strictness  ?     Did  it  not  disgust  you  with  the  Sabbath  and  with 


THE    SABBATH.  135 

religion  ?  No,  it  did  not.  It  did  not,  because  it  was  the  re- 
sult of  no  unkindly  feeling,  but  of  consistent  principle  ;  and 
consistency  of  principle  is  what  even  children  learn  to  appre- 
ciate and  revere.  The  law  of  obedience  and  of  reverence  for 
the  Sabbath  was  constraining  so  equally  on  the  young  and  the 
old,  that  its  claims  came  to  be  regarded  like  those  immutable 
laws  of  nature,  which  no  one  thinks  of  being  out  of  patience 
with,  though  they  sometimes  bear  hard  on  personal  con- 
venience. The  effect  of  the  system  was  to  ingrain  into  our 
character  a  veneration  for  the  Sabbath  which  no  friction  of 
after  life  would  ever  efface.  I  have  lived  to  wander  in  many 
climates  and  foreign  lands,  where  the  Sabbath  is  an  unknown 
name,  or  where  it  is  only  recognized  by  noisy  mirth ;  but 
never  has  the  day  returned  without  bringing  with  it  a  breath- 
ing of  religious  awe,  and  even  a  yearning  for  the  unbroken 
stillness,  the  placid  repose,  and  the  simple  devotion  of  the  Pu- 
ritan Sabbath. 

ANOTHER   SCENE. 

"  How  late  we  are  this  morning ! "  said  Mrs.  Roberts  to 
her  husband,  glancing  hurriedly  at  the  clock,  as  they  were 
sitting  down  to  breakfast  on  a  Sabbath  morning.  '•  Real- 
ly, it  is  a  shame  to  us  to  be  so  late  Sundays.  I  wonder 
John  and  Henry  are  not  up  yet :  Hannah,  did  you  speak  to 
them?" 

"  Yes,  ma'am,  but  I  could  not  make  them  mind  ;  they  said 
it  wras  Sunday,  and  that  we  always  have  breakfast  later 
Sundays." 

"  Well,  it  is  a  shame  to  us,  I  must  say,"  said  Mrs.  Roberts, 
sitting  down  to  the  table.     "I  never  lie  late  myself  unl<   s 


136  THE    SABBATH. 

something  in  particular  happens.  Last  night  I  was  out  very 
late,  and  Sabbath  before  last  I  had  a  bad  headache." 

"  Well,  well,  my  dear,"  said  Mr.  Roberts,  "  it  is  not  worth 
while  to  worry  yourself  about  it ;  Sunday  is  a  day  of  rest ; 
every  body  indulges  a  little  of  a  Sunday  morning,  it  is  so 
very  natural,  you  know  ;  one's  work  done  up,  one  feels  like 
taking  a  little  rest." 

"  Well,  I  must  say  it  was  not  the  way  my  mother  brought 
me  up,"  said  Mrs.  Roberts ;  "  and  I  really  can't  feel  it  to  be 
right." 

This  last  part  of  the  discourse  had  been  listened  to  by  two 
sleepy-looking  boys,  who  had,  meanwhile,  taken  their  seats  at 
table  with  that  listless  air  which  is  the  result  of  late  sleeping. 

"  O,  by  the  by,  my  dear,  what  did  you  give  for  those  hams 
Saturday  ?"  said  Mr.  Roberts. 

•'  Eleven  cents  a  pound,  I  believe,"  replied  Mrs.  Roberts  ; 
"  but  Stephens  and  Philips  have  some  much  nicer,  canvas  and 
all,  for  ten  cents.  I  think  we  had  better  get  our  things  at 
Stephens  and  Philips's  in  future,  my  dear." 

"  AVhy  ?  are  they  much  cheaper  ?  " 

"  O,  a  great  deal ;  but  I  forget  it  is  Sunday.  We  ought  to 
be  thinking  of  other  things.  Boys,  have  you  looked  over  your 
Sunday  school  lesson?" 

"  No,  ma'am." 

"  Now,  how  strange !  and  here  it  wants  only  half  an  hour 
of  the  time,  and  you  are  not  dressed  either.  Now,  see  the 
bad  effects  of  not  being  up  in  time." 

The  boys  looked  sullen,  and  said  "  they  were  up  as  soon  as 
any  one  else  in  the  house." 

"Well,  your  father  and  I  had  some  excuse,  because  we 
were  out  late  last  night;  you  ought  to  have  been  up  full  three 


THE    SABBATH.  137 

hours    ago,  and  to  have  been  all  ready,   with   your  lessons 
learned.     Now,  what  do  you  suppose  you  shall  do  ?  " 

"  O  mother,  do  let  us  stay  at  home  this  one  morning ;  we 
don't  know  the  lesson,  and  it  won't  do  any  good  for  us  to  go." 
"  No,  indeed,  I  shall  not.  You  must  go  and  get  alono-  as 
well  as  you  can.  It  is  all  your  own  fault.  Now,  go  up  stairs 
and  hurry.  We  shall  not  find  time  for  prayers  this  morning." 
The  boys  took  themselves  up  stairs  to  "  hurry,"  as  directed, 
and  soon  one  of  them  called  from  the  top  of  the  stairs, 
"  Mother  !  mother  !  the  buttons  are  off  this  vest ;  so  I  can't 
wear  it !  "  and  "  Mother  !  here  is  a  long  rip  in  my  best  coat !  " 
said  another. 

"  Why  did  you  not  tell  me  of  it  before  ?  "  said  Mrs.  Rob- 
erts, coining  up  stairs. 

"  I  forgot  it,"  said  the  boy 

"  Well,  well,  stand  still ;  I  must  catch  it  together  somehow, 
if  it  is  Sunday.  There  !  there  is  the  bell !  Stand  still  a  min- 
ute !  "  and  Mrs.  Roberts  plied  needle,  and  thread,  and  scissors  ; 
"  there,  that  will  do  for  to-day.  Dear  me,  how  confused  ev- 
ery thing  is  to-day  !  " 

"  Jt  is  always  just  so  Sundays,"  said  John,  flinging  up  his 
book  and  catching  it  again  as  he  ran  down  stairs. 

"  It  is  always  just  so  Sundays."  These  words  struck  rather 
unpleasantly  on  Mrs.  Roberts's  conscience,  for  something  told 
her  that,  whatever  the  reason  might  be,  it  was  just  so.  On 
Sunday  every  thing  was  later  and  more  irregular  than  any 
other  day  in  the  week. 

"  Hannah,  you  must  boil  that  piece  of  beef  for  dinner  to- 
day." 

"  I  thought  you  told  me  you  did  not  have  cooking  done  on 
Sunday." 

12* 


138  THE    SABBATH. 

"  No,  I  do  not,  generally.  I  am  very  sorry  Mr.  Roberts 
would  get  that  piece  of  meat  yesterday.  We  did  not  need  it; 
but  here  it  is  on  our  hands ;  the  weather  is  too  hot  to  keep  it. 
It  won't  do  to  let  it  spoil ;  so  I  must  have  it  boiled,  for  aught 
I  see." 

Hannah  had  lived  four  Sabbaths  with  Mrs.  Roberts,  and 
on  two  of  them  she  had  been  required  to  cook  from  similar 
reasoning.  "  For  once "  is  apt,  in  such  cases,  to  become  a 
phrase  of  very  extensive  signification. 

"  It  really  worries  me  to  have  things  go  on  so  as  they  do 
on  Sundays,"  said  Mrs.  Roberts  to  her  husband.  "  I  never 
do  feel  as  if  we  kept  Sunday  as  we  ought." 

"  My  dear,  you  have  been  saying  so  ever  since  we  were 
married,  and  I  do  not  see  what  you  are  going  to  do  about  it. 
For  my  part  I  do  not  see  why  Ave  do  not  do  as  well  as  people 
in  general.  We  do  not  visit,  nor  receive  company,  nor  read 
improper  books.  We  go  to  church,  and  send  the  children  to 
Sunday  school,  and  so  the  greater  part  of  the  day  is  spent  in 
a  religious  way.  Then  out  of  church  we  have  the  children's 
Sunday  school  books,  and  one  or  two  religious  newspapers. 
I  think  that  is  quite  enough." 

"  But,  somehow,  when  I  was  a  child,  my  mother "  said 

Mrs.  Roberts,  hesitating. 

"O  my  dear,  your  mother  must  not  be  considered  an  exact 
pattern  for  these  days.  People  were  too  strict  in  your  moth- 
er's time  ;  they  carried  the  thing  too  far,  altogether  ;  every 
body  allows  it  now." 

Mrs.  Roberts  was  silenced,  but  not  satisfied.  A  strict  re- 
ligious education  had  left  just  conscience  enough  on  this  sub- 
ject to  make  her  uneasy. 

These  worthy  people  had  a  sort  of  general  idea  that  Sun- 


THE    SABBATH.  139 

day  ought  to  be  kept,  and  they  intended  to  keep  it ;  but  they 
had  never  taken  the  trouble  to  investigate  or  inquire  as  to 
the  most  proper  way,  nor  was  it  so  much  an  object  of  in- 
terest that  their  weekly  arrangements  were  planned  with  any 
reference  to  it.  Mr.  Roberts  would  often  engage  in  business 
at  the  close  of  the  week,  which  he  knew  would  so  fatigue 
him  that  he  would  be  weary  and  listless  on  Sunday ;  and 
Mrs.  Roberts  would  allow  her  family  cares  to  accumulate  in 
the  same  way,  so  that  she  was  either  wearied  with  efforts  to 
accomplish  it  before  the  Sabbath,  or  perplexed  and  worried  by 
finding  every  thing  at  loose  ends  on  that  day.  They  had  the 
idea  that  Sunday  was  to  be  kept  when  it  was  perfectly  con- 
venient, and  did  not  demand  any  sacrifice  of  time  or  money. 
But  if  stopping  to  keep  the  Sabbath  in  a  journey  would  risk 
passage  money  or  a  seat  in  the  stage,  or,  in  housekeeping, 
if  it  would  involve  any  considerable  inconvenience  or  expense, 
it  was  deemed  a  providential  intimation  that  it  was  "  a  work 
of  necessity  and  mercy"  to  attend  to  secular  matters.  To 
their  minds  the  fourth  command  read  thus  :  "  Remember  the 
Sabbath  day  to  keep  it  holy  when  it  comes  convenient,  and 
costs  neither  time  nor  money." 

As  to  the  effects  of  this  on  the  children,  there  was  neither 
enough  of  strictness  to  make  them  respect  the  Sabbath,  nor 
of  religious  interest  to  make  them  love  it ;  of  course,  the  lit- 
tle restraint  there  was  proved  just  enough  to  lead  them  to  dis- 
like and  despise  it.  Children  soon  perceive  the  course  of  their 
parents'  feelings,  and  it  was  evident  enough  to  the  children  of 
this  family  that  their  father  and  mother  generally  found  them- 
selves hurried  into  the  Sabbath  with  hearts  and  minds  full  of 
this  world,  and  their  conversation  and  thoughts  w7ere  so  con- 
stantly turning  to  worldly  things,  and  so  awkwardly  drawn 


140  THE    SABBATH. 

back  by  a  sense  of  religious  obligation,  that  the  Sabbath  ap- 
peared more  obviously  a  clog  and  a  fetter  than  it  did  under 
the  strictest  regime  of  Puritan  days. 


SKETCH  SECOND. 

The  little  quiet  village  of  Camden  stands  under  the  brow 
of  a  rugged  hill  in  one  of  the  most  picturesque  parts  of  New 
England  ;  and  its  regular,  honest,  and  industrious  villagers 
were  not  a  little  surprised  and  pleased  that  Mr.  James,  a  rich 
man,  and  pleasant-spoken  withal,  had  concluded  to  take  up 
his  residence  among  them.  He  brought  with  him  a  pretty,  gen- 
teel wife,  and  a  group  of  rosy,  romping,  but  amiable  children  ; 
and  there  was  so  much  of  good  nature  and  kindness  about  the 
manners  of  every  member  of  the  family,  that  the  whole 
neighborhood  were  prepossessed  in  their  favor.  Mr.  James 
was  a  man  of  somewhat  visionary  and  theoretical  turn  of 
mind,  and  very  much  in  the  habit  of  following  out  his  own 
ideas  of  right  and  wrong,  without  troubling  himself  particular- 
ly as  to  the  appearance  his  course  might  make  in  the  eyes 
of  others.  He  wras  a  supporter  of  the  ordinances  of  religion, 
and  always  ready  to  give  both  time  and  money  to  promote 
any  benevolent  object ;  and  though  he  had  never  made  any 
public  profession  of  religion,  nor  connected  himself  with  any 
particular  set  of  Christians,  still  he  seemed  to  possess  great 
reverence  for  God,  and  to  worship  him  in  spirit  and  in  truth, 
and  he  professed  to  make  the  Bible  the  guide  of  his  life.  Mr. 
James  had  been  brought  up  under  a  system  of  injudicious  re- 
ligious restraint.  lie  had  determined,  in  educating  his  chil- 
dren, to  adopt  an  exactly  opposite  course,  and  to  make  religion 


THE    SABBATH.  141 

and  all  its  institutions  sources  of  enjoyment.  His  aim,  doubt- 
less, was  an  appropriate  one  ;  but  his  method  of  carrying  it  out, 
to  say  the  least,  was  one  which  was  not  a  safe  model  for  gen- 
eral imitation.  In  regard  to  the  Sabbath,  for  example,  he 
considered  that,  although  the  plan  of  going  to  church  twice  a 
day,  and  keeping  all  the  family  quiet  within  doors  the  rest  of 
the  time,  was  good,  other  methods  would  be  much  better. 
Accordingly,  after  the  morning  service,  which  he  and  his 
whole  family  regularly  attended,  he  would  spend  the  rest  of 
the  day  with  his  children.  In  bad  weather  he  would  instruct 
them  in  natural  history,  show  them  pictures,  and  read  them 
various  accounts  of  the  works  of  God,  combining  all  with 
such  religious  instruction  and  influence  as  a  devotional  mind 
might  furnish.  When  the  weather  permitted,  he  would  range 
with  them  through  the  fields,  collecting  minerals  and  plants, 
or  sail  with  them  on  the  lake,  meanwhile  directing  the 
thoughts  of  his  young  listeners  upward  to  God,  by  the  many 
beautiful  traces  of  his  presence  and  agency,  which  superior 
knowledge  and  observation  enabled  him  to  discover  and  point 
out.  These  Sunday  strolls  were  seasons  of  most  delightful 
enjoyment  to  the  children.  Though  it  was  with  some  difficul- 
ty that  their  father  could  restrain  them  from  loud  and  noisy 
demonstrations  of  delight,  and  he  saw  with  soine  regret  that 
the  mere  animal  excitement  of  the  stroll  seemed  to  draw  the 
attention  too  much  from  religi  'is  considerations,  and,  in  par- 
ticular, to  make  the  exercises  of  the  morning  seem  like  a  pre- 
paratory penance  to  the  enjoyments  of  the  afternoon,  never- 
theless, when  Mr.  James  looked  back  to  his  own  boyhood, 
and  remembered  the  frigid  restraint,  the  entire  want  of  any 
kind  of  mental  or  bodily  excitement,  which  had  made  the 
Sabbath  so  much  a  weariness  to  him,  lie   could   not   but  con- 


142  THE    SABBATH. 

gratulate  himself  when  he  perceived  his  children  looking  for- 
ward to  Sunday  as  a  day  of  delight,  and  found  himself  on 
that  day  continually  surrounded  by  a  circle  of  smiling 'and 
cheerful  faces.  His  talent  of  imparting  religious  instruction 
in  a  simple  and  interesting  form  was  remarkably  happy,  and 
it  i.-;  probable  that  there  was  among  his  children  an  uncommon 
degree  of  real  thought  and  feeling  on  religious  subjects  as  the 
result. 

The  good  people  of  Camden,  however,  knew  not  what  to 
think  of  a  course  that  appeared  to  them  an  entire  violation  of 
all  the  requirements  of  the  Sabbath.  The  first  impulse  of 
human  nature  is  to  condemn  at  once  all  who  vary  from  what 
has  been  commonly  regarded  as  the  right  way ;  and,  accord- 
ingly, Mr.  James  was  unsparingly  denounced,  by  many  good 
people,  as  a  Sabbath  breaker,  an  infidel,  and  an  opposer  to 
religion. 

Such  was  the  character  heard  of  him  by  Mr.  Richards,  a 
young  clergyman,  who,  shortly  after  Mr.  James  fixed  his  resi- 
dence in  Camden,  accepted  the  pastoral  charge  of  the  village. 
It  happened  that  Mr.  Richards  had  known  Mr.  James  in  col- 
lege, and,  remembering  him  as  a  remarkably  serious,  amiable, 
and  conscientious  man,  he  resolved  to  ascertain  from  himself 
the  views  which  had  led  him  to  the  course  of  conduct  so  offen- 
sive to  the  gooo*  people  of  the  neighborhood. 

"  This  is  all  very  well,  my  good  friend,"  said  he,  after  he 
had  listened  to  Mr.  James's  eloquent  account  of  his  own  sys- 
tem of  religious  instruction,  and  its  effects  upon  his  family ; 
"  I  do  not  doubt  that  this  system  does  very  well  for  yourself 
and  family  ;  but  there  are  other  things  to  be  taken  into  con- 
sideration besides  personal  and  family  improvement.  Do  you 
not  know,  Mr.  James,  that  the  most  worthless  and  careless 


THE    SABBATH.  143 

part  of  my  congregation  quote  your  example  as  a  respectable 
precedent  for  allowing  their  families  to  violate  the  order  of  the 
Sabbath  ?  You  and  your  children  sail  about  on  the  lake,  with 
minds  and  hearts,  I  doubt  not,  elevated  and  tranquillized  by 
its  quiet  repose  ;  but  Ben  Dakes,  and  his  idle,  profane  army 
of  children,  consider  themselves  as  doing  very  much  the  same 
thing  when  they  lie  lolling  about,  sunning  themselves  on  its 
shore,  or  skipping  stones  over  its  surface  the  whole  of  a  Sun- 
day afternoon." 

"  Let  every  one  answer  to  his  own  conscience,"  replied  Mr. 
James.  "  If  I  keep  the  Sabbath  conscientiously,  I  am  ap- 
proved of  God ;  if  another  transgresses  his  conscience,  ;  to  his 
own  master  he  standeth  or  falleth.'  I  am  not  responsible  for 
all  the  abuses  that  idle  or  evil-disposed  persons  may  fall  into, 
in  consequence  of  my  doing  what  is  right." 

"  Let  me  quote  an  answer  from  the  same  chapter,"  said  Mr. 
Richards.  "  '  Let  no  man  put  a  stumbling  block,  or  an  occa- 
sion to  fall,  in  his  brother's  way':  let  not  your  good  be  evil 
spoken  of.  It  is  good  neither  to  eat  flesh  nor  drink  wine,  nor 
any  thing  whereby  thy  brother  stumbleth,  or  is  offended,  or  made 
weak.''  Now,  my  good  friend,  you  happen  to  be  endowed  with 
a  certain  tone  of  mind  which  enables  you  to  carry  through 
your  mode  of  keeping  the  Sabbath  with  little  comparative 
evil,  and  much  good,  so  far  as  your  family  is  concerned;  but 
how  many  persons  in  this  neighborhood,  do  you  suppose, 
would  succeed  equally  well  if  they  were  to  attempt  it?  If  it 
were  the  common  custom  for  families  to  absent  themselves 
from  public  worship  in  the  afternoon,  and  to  stroll  about  the 
fields,  or  ride,  or  sail,  how  many  parents,  do  you  suppose, 
would  have  the  dexterity  and  talent  to  check  all  that  was  in- 
consistent with  the  duties  of  the  day  ?     Is  it  not  your  ready 


144  THE    SABBATH. 

command  of  language,  your  uncommon  tact  in  simplifying  and 
illustrating,  your  knowledge  of  natural  history  and  of  biblical 
literature,  that  enable  you  to  accomplish  the  results  that  you 
do  ?  And  is  there  one  parent  in  a  hundred  that  could  do  the 
same  ?  Now,  just  imagine  our  neighbor,  'Squire  Hart,  with 
his  ten  boys  and  girls,  turned  out  into  the  fields  on  a  Sunday 
afternoon  to  profit  withal :  you  know  he  can  never  finish  a 
sentence  without  stopping  to  begin  it  again  half  a  dozen  times. 
What  progress  would  he  make  in  instructing  them  ?  And  so 
of  a  dozen  others  I  could  name  along  this  very  street  here. 
Now,  you  men  of  cultivated  minds  must  give  your  countenance 
to  courses  which  would  be  best  for  society  at  large,  or,  as  the 
sentiment  was  expressed  by  St.  Paul,  '  We  that  are  strong 
ought  to  bear  the  infirmities  of  the  weak,  and  not  to  please 
ourselves,  for  even  Christ  pleased  not  himself.'  Think,  my 
dear  sir,  if  our  Savior  had  gone  only,  on  the  principle  of  avoid- 
ing what  might  be  injurious  to  his  own  improvement,  how  un- 
safe his  example  might  have  proved  to  less  elevated  minds. 
Doubtless  he  might  have  made  a  Sabbath  day  fishing  excur- 
sion an  occasion  of  much  elevated  and  impressive  instruction  ; 
but,  although  he  declared  himself  '  Lord  of  the  Sabbath  day,' 
and  at  liberty  to  suspend  its  obligation  at  his  own  discretion, 
yet  he  never  violated  the  received  method  of  observing  it,  ex- 
cept in  cases  where  superstitious  tradition  trenched  directly  on 
those  interests  which  the  Sabbath  was  given  to  promote.  He  as- 
serted the  right  to  relieve  pressing  bodily  wants,  and  to  admin- 
ister to  the  necessities  of  others  on  the  Sabbath,  but  beyond  that 
he  allowed  himself  in  no  deviation  from  established  custom." 

Mr.  James  looked  thoughtful.  "  I  have  not  reflected  on  the 
subject  in  this  view,"  he  replied.  "  But,  my  dear  sir,  consid- 
ering how  little  of  the  public  services  of  the  Sabbath  is  on  a 


THE    SABBATH.  145 

level  with  the  capacity  of  younger  children,  it  seems  to  me 
almost  a  pity  to  take  them  to  church  the  whole  of  the  day." 

"  I  have  thought  of  that  myself,"  replied  Mr.  Richards, 
"  and  have  sometimes  thought  that,  could  persons  be  found  to 
conduct  such  a  thing,  it  would  be  desirable  to  institute  a  sepa- 
rate service  for  children,  in  which  the  exercises  should  be 
particularly  adapted  to  them." 

"  I  should  like  to  be  minister  to  a  congregation  of  children," 
said  Mr.  James,  warmly. 

"  Well,"  replied  Mr.  Richards,  "  give  our  good  people  time 
to  get  acquainted  with  you,  and  do  away  the  prejudices  which 
your  extraordinary  mode  of  proceeding  has  induced,  and  I 
think  I  could  easily  assemble  such  a  company  for  you  every 
Sabbath." 

After  this,  much  to  the  surprise  of  the  village,  Mr.  Jame3 
and  his  family  were  regular  attendants  at  both  the  services  of 
the  Sabbath.  Mr.  Richards  explained  to  the  good  people  of 
his  congregation  the  motives  which  had  led  their  neighbor  to 
the  adoption  of  what,  to  them,  seemed  so  unchristian  a  course ; 
and,  upon  reflection,  they  came  to  the  perception  of  the  truth, 
that  a  man  may  depart  very  widely  from  the  received  stan- 
dard of  right  for  other  reasons  than  being  an  infidel  or  an 
opposer  of  religion.  A  ready  return  of  cordial  feeling  was 
the  result ;  and  as  Mr.  James  found  himself  treated  with  re- 
spect and  confidence,  he  began  to  feel,  notwithstanding  his 
fastidiousness,  that  there  were  strong  points  of  congeniality 
between  all  real  and  warm-hearted  Christians,  however  differ- 
ent might  be  their  intellectual  culture,  and  in  all  simplicity 
united  himself  with  the  little  church  of  Camden.  A  year 
from  the  time  of  his  first  residence  there,  every  Sabbath  after- 
noon saw  him  surrounded  by  a  congregation  of  young  children, 
13 


146  THE    SABBATH. 

for  whose  benefit  he  had,  at  his  own  expense,  provided  a  room, 
fitted  up  with  maps,  scriptural  pictures,  and  every  convenience 
for  the  illustration  of  biblical  knowledge;  and  the  parents  or 
guardians  who  from  time  to'time  attended  their  children  dur- 
ises,  often  confessed  themselves  as  much  inter- 
I  and  benefited  as  any  of  their  youthful  companions. 


SKETCH   THIRD. 

[l  was  near  the  close  of  a  plea-ant  Saturday  afternoon  that 
v  up  my  weary  horse  in  front  of  a  neat  Little  dwelling  in 
the  village  of  N.     This,  as  near  as  I  could  gather  from  de- 
.  was  the  house  of  my  cousin,  William  Fletcher,  the 
identical  rogue  of  a  Bill  Fletcher  of  whom  we  have  aforetime 
spoken.     Bill  had  always  been  a  thriving,  push-ahead  sort  of 
a  character,  and  during  the  course  of  my  rambling  life  I  had 
improved  every  occasional  opportunity  of  keeping  up  our  early 
acquaintance.     The  last  time  that  I  returned  to  my  native 
country,  after  some  years  of  absence,  I  heard  of  him  as  mar- 
ried and  settled  in  the  village  of  N.,  where  he  was  conducting 
a   very  prosperous   course  of  business,  and  shortly  after  re- 
1   a   pressing  invitation  to    visit  him  at  his  own  home. 
Now,  as  I  had  gathered  from  experience  the  fact  that  it  is  of 
very  little  use  to  rap  one's  knuckles  off  on  the  front  door  of  a 
.:ry  house  without   any  knocker,  I  therefore  made  the  best 
of  my  way  along   a    little    path,  bordered   with   marigolds   and 
balsams,  that  led  to  the  back  part  of  the  dwelling.    The  sound 
of  a  number  of  childish  voices  made  me  Btop,  and,  looking 
through  the  bushes,  I   saw  the  very  i:na;rc  of  my  cousin  Bill 
her.  a-   he   used   to  be  twenty  years  ago;  the  same  bold 


THE    SABBATH.  1 47 

forehead,  the  same  dark  eyes,  the  same  smart,  saucy  mouth, 
and  the  same  u  who-cares-for-that"  toss  to  his  head.  "  There, 
now,"  exclaimed  the  boy,  setting  down  a  pair  of  shoes  that  he 
had  been  blacking,  and  arranging  them  at  the  head  of  a  long- 
row  of  all  sizes  .and  sorts,  from  those  which  might  have  fitted 
a  two  year  old  foot  upward,  "  there,  I've  blacked  every  single 
one  of  them,  and  made  them  shine  too,  and  done  it  all  in 
twenty  minutes  ;  if  any  body  thinks  they  can  do  it  quicker 
than  that,  I'd  just  like  to  have  them  try  ;  that's  all." 

"  I  know  they  couldn't,  though,"  said  a  fair-haired  little  girl, 
who  stood  admiring  the  sight,  evidently  impressed  with  the 
utmost  reverence  for  her  brother's  ability ;  "  and,  Bill,  I've 
been  putting  up  all  the  playthings  in  the  big  chest,  and  I 
want  you  to  come  and  turn  the  lock  —  the  key  hurts  my 
lingers." 

"  Poh  !  I  can  turn  it  easier  than  that,"  said  the  boy,  snap- 
ping his  fingers  ;  "  have  you  got  them  all  in  ?  " 

"  Yes,  all  ;  only  I  left  out  the  soft  bales,  and  the  string  of 
red  beads,  and  the  great  rag  baby  for  Fanny  to  play  with  — 
you  know  mother  says  babies  must  have  their  playthings 
Sunday." 

"  O,  to  be  sure,"  said  the  brother,  very  considerately  ;  "  ba- 
bies can't  read,  you  know,  as  we  can,  nor  hear  Bible  stories, 
nor  look  at  pictures."  At  this  moment  I  stepped  forward,  for 
the  spell  of  former  times  was  so  powerfully  on  me,  that  I  Avas 
on  the  very  point  of  springing  forward  with  a  "  Halloo,  there, 
Bill !  "  as  I  used  to  meet  the  father  in  old  times  ;  but  the  look 
of  surprise  that  greeted  my  appearance  brought  me  to  myself. 

"  Is  your  father  at  home  ?  "  said  I. 

"  Father  and  mother  are  both  gone  out ;  but  I  gues?,  sir, 
they  will  be  home  in  a  few  moments  :  won't  you  walk  in  ?  " 


148  THE    SABBATH. 

I  accepted  the  invitation,  and  the  little  girl  showed  me  into 
a  small  and  very  prettily  furnished  parlor.  There  was  a  piano 
with  music  books  on  one  side  of  the  room,  some  fine  pictures 
hung  about  the  walls,  and  a  little,  neat  centre  table  was  plenti- 
fully strewn  with  books.  Besides  this,  the  two  recesses  on 
each  side  of  the  fireplace  contained  each  a  bookcase  with  a 
glass  locked  door. 

The  little  girl  offered  me  a  chair,  and  then  lingered  a  mo- 
ment, as  if  she  felt  some  disposition  to  entertain  me  if  she 
could  only  think  of  something  to  say  ;  and  at  last,  looking  up 
in  my  face,  she  said,  in  a  confidential  tone,  "  Mother  says  she 
left  Willie  and  me  to  keep  house  this  afternoon  while  she 
was  gone,  and  we  are  putting  up  all  the  things  for  Sunday,  so 
as  to  get  every  thing  done  before  she  comes  home.  Willie 
has  gone  to  put  away  the  playthings,  and  I'm  going  to  put  up 
the  books."  So  saying,  she  opened  the  doors  of  one  of  the 
bookcases,  and  began  busily  carrying  the  books  from  the  cen- 
tre table  to  deposit  them  on  the  shelves,  in  which  employment 
she  was  soon  assisted  by  AVillie,  who  took  the  matter  in  hand 
in  a  very  masterly  manner,  showing  his  sister  what  were  and 
what  were  not  "  Sunday  books  "  with  the  air  of  a  person  en- 
tirely at  home  in  the  business.  Robinson  Crusoe  and  the 
many-volumed  Peter  Parley  were  put  by  without  hesitation  ; 
there  was,  however,  a  short  demurring  over  a  North  American 
Review,  because  Willie  said  he  was  sure  his  father  read  some- 
thing one  Sunday  out  of  one  of  them,  while  Susan  averred 
that  he  did  not  commonly  read  in  it,  and  only  read  in  it  then 
because  the  piece  was  something  about  tire  Bible;  but  as 
nothing  could  be  settled  definitively  on  the  point,  the  review 
was  "laid  on  the  table,"  like  knotty  questions  in  Congress. 
Then  followed  a  long  discussion  over  an  extract  book,  which, 


THE    SABBATH.  149 

as  usual,  contained  all  sorts,  both  sacred,  serious,  comic,  and 
profane ;  and  at  last  Willie,  with  much  gravity,  decided  to  lock 
it  up,  on  the  principle  that  it  was  best  to  be  on  the  safe  side, 
in  support  of  which  he  appealed  to  me.  I  was  saved  from 
deciding  the  question  by  the  entrance  of  the  father  and  moth- 
er. My  old  friend  knew  me  at  once,  and  presented  his  pretty 
wife  to  me  with  the  same  look  of  exultation  with  which  he 
used  to  hold  up  a  string  of  trout  or  an  uncommonly  fine  perch 
of  his  own  catching  for  my  admiration,  and  then  looking  round 
on  his  fine  family  of  children,  two  more  of  which  he  had 
brought  home  with  him,  seemed  to  say  to  me,  "  There  !  what 
do  you  think  of  that,  now  ?  " 

And,  in  truth,  a  very  pretty  sight  it  was  —  enough  to  make 
any  one's  old  bachelor  coat  sit  very  uneasily  on  him.  Indeed, 
there  is  nothing  that  gives  one  such  a  startling  idea  of  the 
tricks  that  old  Father  Time  has  been  playing  on  us,  as  to  meet 
some  boyish  or  girlish  companions  with  half  a  dozen  or  so  of 
thriving  children  about  them.  My  old  friend,  I  found,  was  in 
essence  just  what  the  boy  had  been.  There  was  the  same 
upright  bearing,  the  same  confident,  cheerful  tone  to  his  voice, 
and  the  same  fire  in  his  eye  ;  only  that  the  hand  of  manhood 
had  slightly  touched  some  of  the  lines  of  his  face,  giving  them 
a  staidness  of  expression  becoming  the  man  and  the  father. 

"  Very  well,  my  children,"  said  Mrs.  Fletcher,  as,  after  tea, 
William  and  Susan  finished  recounting  to  her  the  various  mat- 
ters that  they  had  set  in  order  that  afternoon  ;  "  I  believe  now 
we  can  say  that  our  week's  work  is  finished,  and  that  we  have 
nothing  to  do  but  rest  and  enjoy  ourselves." 

"  0,  and  papa  will  show  us  the  pictures  in  those  great  books 
that  he  brought  home  for  us  last  Monday,  will  he  not  ?  "  said 
little  Robert. 

13* 


150  THE    SABBATH. 

4'  And,  mother,  you  will  tell  us  some  more  about  Solomon's 
temple  and  his  palaces,  won't  you  ?  "  said  Susan. 

"  And  I  should  like  to  know  if  father  has  found  out  the  an- 
swer to  that  hard  question  I  gave  him  last  Sunday  ?  "  said 
Willie. 

"  All  will  come  in  good  time,"  said  Mrs.  Fletcher.  "  But 
tell  me,  my  dear  children,  are  you  sure  that  you  are  quite 
ready  for  the  Sabbath  ?  You  say  you  haye  put  away  the 
books  and  the  playthings  ;  have  you  put  away,  too,  all  wrong 
and  unkind  feelings  ?  Do  you  feel  kindly  and  pleasantly  to- 
wards every  body  ?  " 

"  Yes,  mother,"  said  Willie,  who  appeared  to  have  taken  a 
great  part  of  this  speech  to  himself;  "  I  went  over  to  Tom 
Walter's  this  very  morning  to  ask  him  about  that  chicken  of 
mine,  and  he  said  that  he  did  not  mean  to  hit  it,  and  did  not 
know  he  had  till  I  told  him  of  it ;  and  so  we  made  all  up 
again,  and  I  am  glad  I  went." 

"  I  am  inclined  to  think,  Willie,"  said  his  father,  "  that  if 
every  body  would  make  it  a  rule  to  settle  up  all  their  differ- 
ences before  Sunday,  there  would  be  very  few  long  quarrels 
and  lawsuits.  In  about  half  the  cases,  a  quarrel  is  founded 
on  some  misunderstanding  that  would  be  got  over  in  five 
minutes  if  one  would  go  directly  to  the  person  for  explanation." 

"  I  suppose  I  need  not  ask  you,"  said  Mrs.  Fletcher,  "  wheth- 
er you  have  fully  learned  your  Sunday  school  lessons." 

"  O,  to  be  sure,"  said  William.  "  You  know,  mother,  that 
Susan  and  I  were  busy  about  them  through  Monday  and 
Tuesday,  and  then  this  afternoon  we  looked  them  over  again, 
and  wrote  down  some  questions." 

"  And  I  heard  Robert  say  his  all  through,  and  showed  him 
all  the  places  on  the  Bible  Atlas,"  said  Susan. 


THE    SABBATH.  151 

"  Well,  then,"  said  my  friend,  "  if  every  thing  is  done,  let 
us  begin  Sunday  with  some  music." 

Thanks  to  the  recent  improvements  in  the  musical  instruc- 
tion of  the  young,  every  family  can  now  form  a  domestic  con- 
cert, with  words  and  tunes  adapted  to  the  capacity  and  the 
voices  of  children ;  and  while  these  little  ones,  full  of  anima- 
tion, pressed  round  their  mother  as  she  sat  at  the  piano,  and 
accompanied  her  music  writh  the  words  of  some  beautiful 
hymns,  I  thought  that,  though  I  might  have  heard  finer  music, 
I  had  never  listened  to  any  that  answered  the  purpose  of 
music  so  well. 

It  was  a  custom  at  my  friend's  to  retire  at  an  early  hour 
on  Saturday  evening,  in  order  that  there  might  be  abundant 
time  for  rest,  and  no  excuse  for  late  rising  on  the  Sabbath ; 
and,  accordingly,  when  the  children  had  done  singing,  after  a 
short  season  of  family  devotion,  we  all  betook  ourselves  to 
our  chambers,  and  I,  for  one,  fell  asleep  with  the  impression 
of  having  finished  the  week  most  agreeably,  and  with  antici- 
pations of  very  great  pleasure  on  the  morrow. 

Early  in  the  morning  I  was  roused  from  my  sleep  by  the 
sound  of  little  voices  singing  with  great  animation  in  the  room 
next  to  mine,  and,  listening,  I  caught  the  following  words  :  — 

"  Awake  !  awake  !  your  bed  forsake, 
To  God  your  praises  pay ; 
The  morning  sun  is  clear  and  bright ; 
With  joy  we  hail  his  cheerful  light. 
In  songs  of  love 
Praise  God  above  — 
It  is  the  Sabbath  day  !  " 

The  last  words  were  repeated  and  prolonged  most  vehe- 
mently by  a  voice  that  I  knew  for  Master  William's. 


152  THE    SABBATH. 

"  Now,  Willie,  I  like   the  other  one   best,"  said  the  soft 

voice  of  little  Susan  ;  and  immediately  she  began,  — 

■ 

"  How  sweet  is  the  day, 
When,  leaving  our  play, 
The  Saviour  we  seek  ! 
The  fair  morning  glows 
When  Jesus  arose  — 
The  best  in  the  week." 

Master  William  helped  along  with  great  spirit  in  the  singing 
of  this  tune,  though  I  heard  him  observing,  at  the  end  of  the 
first  verse,  that  he  liked  the  other  one  better,  because  "  it 
seemed  to  step  off  so  kind  o'  lively ;  "  and  his  accommodating 
sister  followed  him  as  he  began  singing  it  again  with  redoubled 
animation. 

It  was  a  beautiful  summer  morning,  and  the  voices  of  the 
children  within  accorded  well  with  the  notes  of  birds  and 
bleating  flocks  without  —  a  cheerful,  yet  Sabbath-like  and 
quieting  sound. 

''Blessed  be  children's  music!"  said  I  to  myself;  "how 
much  better  this  is  than  the  solitary  tick,  tick,  of  old  Uncle 
Fletcher's  tall  mahogany  clock  !  " 

The  family  bell  summoned  us  to  the  breakfast  room  just  as 
the  children  had  finished  their  hymn.  The  little  breakfast 
parlor  had  been  swept  and  garnished  expressly  for  the  day, 
and  a  vase  of  beautiful  flowers,  which  the  children  had  the 
day  before  collected  from  their  gardens,  adorned  the  centre 
table.  The  door  of  one  of  the  bookcases  by  the  fireplace  was 
thrown  open,  presenting  to  view  a  collection  of  prettily  bound 
books,  over  the  top  of  which  appeared  in  gilt  letters  the  in- 
scription, "  Sabbath  Library."  The  windows  were  thrown 
open   to  let  in  the  invigorating  breath  of  the  early  morning, 


THE    SABBATH.  153 

and  the  birds  that  flitted  among  the  rosebushes  without 
seemed  scarcely  lighter  and  more  buoyant  than  did  the  chil- 
dren as  they  entered  the  room.  It  was  •  legibly  written  on 
every  face  in  the  house,  that  the  happiest  day  in  the  week 
had  arrived,  and  each  one  seemed  to  enter  into  its  duties  with 
a  whole  soul.  It  was  still  early  when  the  breakfast  and  the 
season  of  family  devotion  were  over,  and  the  children  eagerly 
gathered  round  the  table  to  get  a  sight  of  the  pictures  in  the 
new  books  which  their  father  had  purchased  in  New  York 
the  week  before,  and  which  had  been  reserved  as  a  Sunday's 
treat.  They  were  a  beautiful  edition  of  Calmet's  Dictionary, 
in  several  large  volumes,  with  very  superior  engravings. 

"  It  seems  to  me  that  this  work  must  be  very  expensive,"  I 
remarked  fo  my  friend,  as  we  were  turning  the  leaves. 

"  Indeed  it  is  so,"  he  replied ;  "  but  here  is  one  place  where 
I  am  less  withheld  by  considerations  of  expense  than  in  any 
other.  In  all  that  concerns  making  a  show  in  the  world,  I 
am  perfectly  ready  to  economize.  I  can  do  very  well  without 
expensive  clothing  or  fashionable  furniture,  and  am  willing 
that  we  should  be  looked  on  as  very  plain  sort  of  people  in 
all  such  matters  ;  but  in  all  that  relates  to  the  cultivation  of 
the  mind,  and  the  improvement  of  the  hearts  of  my  children, 
I  am  willing  to  go  to  the  extent  of  my  ability.  Whatever 
will  give  my  children  a  better  knowledge  of,  or  deeper  inter- 
est in,  the  Bible,  or  enable  them  to  spend  a  Sabbath  profitably 
and  without  weariness,  stands  first  on  my  list  among  things  to 
be  purchased.  I  have  spent  in  this  way  one  third  as  much  as 
the  furnishing  of  my  house  costs  me."  On  looking  over  the 
shelves  of  the  Sabbath  library,  I  perceived  that  my  friend 
had  been  at  no  small  pains  in  the  selection.  It  comprised  all 
the  popular  standard  works  for  the  illustration  of  the   Bible, 


]54  THE    SABBATH. 

together  with  the  best  of  the  modern  religious  publications 
adapted  to  the  capacity  of  young  children.  Two  large  draw- 
ers below  were  fined  with  maps  and  scriptural  engravings, 
some  of  them  of  a  very  superior  character. 

"  We  have  been  collecting  these  things  gradually  ever  since 
we  have  been  at  housekeeping,"  said  my  friend ;  "  the  children 
take  an  interest  in  this  library,  as  something  more  particularly 
belonging  to  them,  and  some  of  the  books  are  donations  from 
their  little  earnings." 

"  Yes,"  said  Willie,  "  I  bought  Helon's  Pilgrimage  with  my 
egg  money,  and  Susan  bought  the  Life  of  David,  and  little 
Robert  is  going  to  buy  one,  too,  next  new  year." 

"But,"  said  I,  u  would  not  the  Sunday  school  library  answer 
all  the  purpose  of  this  ?  " 

"  The  Sabbath  school  library  is  an  admirable  thing,"  said 
my  friend  ;  "  but  this  does  more  fully  and  perfectly  what  that 
was  intended  to  do.  It  makes  a  sort  of  central  attraction  at 
home  on  the  Sabbath,  and  makes  the  acquisition  of  religious 
knowledge  and  the  proper  observance  of  the  Sabbath  a  sort 
of  family  enterprise.  You  know,"  he  added,  smiling,  "  that 
people  always  feel  interested  for  an  object  in  which  they  have 
invested  money." 

The  sound  of  the  first  Sabbath  school  bell  put  an  end  to 
this  conversation.  The  children  promptly  made  themselves 
ready,  and  as  their  father  was  the  superintendent  of  the  school, 
and  their  mother  one  of  the  teachers,  it  was  quite  a  family 
party. 

One  part  of  every  Sabbath  at  my  friend's  was  spent  by  one 
or  both  parents  with  the  children,  in  a  sort  of  review  of  the 
week.  The  attention  of  the  little  ones  wTas  directed  to  their 
own  characters,  the  various  defects  or  improvements  of  the 


THE    SABBATH.  155 

past  week  were  pointed  out,  and  they  were  stimulated  to  be 
on  their  guard  in  the  time  to  come,  and  the  whole  was  closed 
by  earnest  prayer  for  such  heavenly  aid  a(£  the  temptations 
and  faults  of  each  particular  one  might  need.  After  church 
in  the  evening,  while  the  children  were  thus  withdrawn  to 
their  mother's  apartment,  I  could  not  forbear  reminding  my 
friend  of  old  times,  and  of  the  rather  anti-sabbatical  turn  of 
his  mind  in  our  boyish  days. 

"  Now,  William,"  said  I,  "  do  you  know  that  you  were  the 
last  boy  of  whom  such  an  enterprise  in  Sabbath  keeping  as 
this  was  to  have  been  expected  ?  I  suppose  you  remember 
Sunday  at  '  the  old  place  '  ?  " 

"  Nay,  now,  I  think  I  was  the  very  one,"  said  he,  smiling, 
"  for  I  had  sense  enough  to  see,  as  I  grew  up,  that  the  day 
must  be  kept  thoroughly  or  not  at  all,  and  I  had  enough 
blood  and  motion  in  my  composition  to  see  that  some- 
thing must  be  done  to  enliven  and  make  it  interesting  ;  so  I 
set  myself  about  it.  It  was  one  of  the  first  of  our  housekeep- 
ing resolutions,  that  the  Sabbath  should  be  made  a  pleasant 
day,  and  yet  be  as  inviolably  kept  as  in  the  strictest  times  of 
our  good  father  ;  and  we  have  brought  things  to  run  in  that 
channel  so  long,  that  it  seems  to  be  the  natural  order." 

u  I  have  always  supposed,"  said  I,  "  that  it  required  a  pecu- 
liar talent,  and  more  than  common  information  in  a  parent,  to 
accomplish  this  to  any  extent." 

"It  requires  nothing,"  replied  my  friend,  "but  common 
sense,  and  a  strong  determination  to  do  it.  Parents  who 
make  a  definite  object  of  the  religious  instruction  of  the  it- 
children,  if  they  have  common  sense,  can  very  soon  see  what 
is  necessary  in  order  to  interest  them  ;  and,  if  they  find  them- 
selves wanting  in  the  requisite  information,  they  can,  in  these 


156  THE    SABBATH. 

days,  very  readily  acquire  it.  The  sources  of  religious 
knowledge  are  so  numerous,  and  so  popular  in  their  form, 
that  all  can  avail  themselves  of  them.  The  only  difficulty, 
after  all,  is,  that  the  keeping  of  the  Sabbath  and  the  impart- 
ing of  religious  instruction  are  not  made  enough  of  a  home 
object.  Parents  pass  off  the  responsibility  on  to  the  Sunday 
school  teacher,  and  suppose,  of  course,  if  they  send  their  chil- 
dren to  Sunday  school,  they  do  the  best  they  can  for  them. 
Now,  I  am  satisfied,  from  my  experience  as  a  Sabbath  school 
teacher,  that  the  best  religious  instruction  imparted  abroad 
still  stands  in  need  of  the  cooperation  of  a  systematic  plan  of 
religious  discipline  and  instruction  at  home  ;  for,  after  all,  God 
gives  a  power  to  the  efforts  of  a  parent  that  can  -never  be 
transferred  to  other  hands." 

"  But  do  you  suppose,"  said  I,  "  that  the  common  class 
of  minds,  with  ordinary  advantages,  can  do  what  you  have 
done?" 

"  I  think  in  most  cases  they  could,  if  they  begin  right. 
But  when  both  parents  and  children  have  formed  habits,  it  is 
more  difficult  to  change  than  to  begin  right  at  first.  However, 
I  think  all  might  accomplish  a  great  deal  if  they  would  give 
time,  money,  and  effort  towards  it.  It  is  because  the  object  is 
regarded  of  so  little  value,  compared  with  other  things  of  a 
worldly  nature,  that  so  little  is  done." 

My  friend  was  here  interrupted  by  the  entrance  of  Mrs. 
Fletcher  with  the  children.  Mrs.  Fletcher  sat  down  to  the 
piano,  and  the  Sabbath  was  closed  with  the  happy  songs  of 
the  little  ones ;  nor  could  I  notice  a  single  anxious  eye  turn- 
ing to  the  window  to  see  if  the  sun  was  not  almost  down. 
The  tender  and  softened  expression  of  each  countenance  bore 
witness  to  the  subduing  power  of  those  instructions  which 


THE    SABBATH.  157 

had  hallowed  the  last  hour,  and  their  sweet,  bird-like  voices 
harmonized  well  with  the  beautiful  words,  — 

"  How  sweet  the  light  of  Sabbath  ore  ! 
How  soft  the  sunbeam  lingering  there ! 
Those  holy  hours  this  low  earth  leave, 
And  rise  on  wings  of  faith  and  prayer." 

14 


LET  EVERY  MAN  MIND  HIS  OWN 

BUSINESS. 


••  And  so  you  will  not  sign  this  paper?"  said  Alfred  Mel- 
ton to  his  cousin,  a  fine-looking  young  man,  who  was  lounging 
by  tin'  centre  table. 

"  Not  !.  indeed.  What  in  life  have  I  to  do  with  these  de- 
cidedly vulgar  temperance  pledges?  Pshaw!  they  have  a 
relish  of  whiskey  in  their  wry  essence!" 

'•Conic,  come,  Cousin  Melton,"  said  a  brilliant,  dark-eyed 
girl,  who  had  been  lolling  on  the  sofa  during  the  conference, 
"I  beg  of  you  to  give  over  attempting  to  evangelize  Edward. 
You  see,  as  Falstaff  has  it.  'he  is  little  better  than  one  of 
the  wicked.'  You  must  not  waste  such  valuable  temperance 
documents  on  him." 

'•  lint,  seriously,  -Melton,  my  good  fellow,"  resumed  Edward, 
"  this  signing,  and  Bealing,  and  pledging  is  altogether  an  un- 
necessary affair  for  me.  My  past  and  present  habits,  my 
situation  in  life.  — in  short,  every  thing  that  can  be  mentioned 
with  regard  to  me,  —  goes  againsl  the  supposition  of  my  ever 
aing  the  -law  of  a  vice  so  debasing;  and  this  pledging 
If  to  avoid  it  is  something  altogether  needless  —  nay,  by 
implication,    it    is    degrading.      As  to    what    you    say  of    my 

(1-38) 


LET    EVEIIY   MAN    MIND    HIS    OWN    BUSINESS.  151) 

influence,  I  am  inclined  to  the  opinion,  that  if  every  man  will 
look  to  himself,  every  man  will  be  looked  to.  This  modern 
notion  of  tacking  the  whole  responsibility  of  society  on  to 
every  individual  is  one  I  am  not  at  all  inclined  to  adopt ;  for, 
first,  I  know  it  is  a  troublesome  doctrine  ;  and,  secondly,  I 
doubt  if  it  be  a  true  one.  For  both  which  reasons,  I  shall 
decline  extending  to  it  my  patronage." 

"  "Well,  positively,"  exclaimed  the  lady,  "  you  gentlemen 
have  the  gift  of  continuance  in  an  uncommon  degree.  You 
have  discussed  this  matter  backward  and  forward  till  I  am 
ready  to  perish.  I  will  take  the  matter  in  hand  myself,  and 
sign  a  temperance  pledge  for  Edward,  and  see  that  he  gets 
into  none  of  those  naughty  courses  upon  which  you  have  been 
so  pathetic." 

"  I  dare  say,"  said  Melton,  glancing  on  her  brilliant  face 
with  evident  admiration,  "  that  you  will  be  the  best  temper- 
ance pledge  he  could  have.  But  every  man,  cousin,  may  not 
be  so  fortunate." 

"  But,  Melton,"  said  Edward,  "  seeing  my  steady  habits  are 
so  well  provided  for,  you  must  carry  your  logic  and  eloquence 
to  some  poor  fellow  less  favored."  And  thus  the  conference 
ended. 

"  What  a  good  disinterested  fellow  Melton  is ! "  said  Ed- 
ward, after  he  had  left. 

"  Yes,  good,  as  the  day  is  long,"  said  Augusta,  "  but  rather 
prosy,  after  all.  This  tiresome  temperance  business!  One 
never  hears  the  end  of  it  nowadays.  Temperance  papers  — 
temperance  tracts  —  temperance  hotels  —  temperance  this, 
that,  and  the  other  thing,  even  down  to  temperance  pocket 
handkerchiefs  for  little  boys !  Really,  the  world  is  getting 
intemperately  temperate." 


160  LET    EVERT    MAN    MIND    HIS    OWN    BUSINESS. 

•■  All.  welll  with  the  security  you  have  offered,  Augusta,  I 
shall  dread  no  temptation." 

Though  there  was  nothing  peculiar  in  these  words,  yet  there 
was  a  certain  earnestness  of  tone  that  called  the  color  into  the 
fact-  of  Augusta,  and  set  her  to  sewing  with  uncommon  assi- 
duity. And  thereupon  Edward  proceeded  with  some  remark 
about  "guardian  angels,"  together  with  many  other  things  of 
the  kind,  which,  though  they  contain  no  more  that  is  new  than 
a  temperance  lecture,  always  seem  to  have  a  peculiar  fresh- 
to  people  in  certain  circumstances.  In  fact,  before  the 
hour  was  at  an  end,  Edward  and  Augusta  had  forgotten  where 
they  began,  and  had  wandered  far  into  that  land  of  anticipa- 
tions and  bright -dreams  which  surrounds  the  young  and  lov- 
ing before  they  eat  of  the  tree  of  experience,  and  gain  the 
fatal  knowledge  of  good  and  evil. 

lint  here,  stopping  our  sketching  pencil,  let  us  throw  in  a 
little  background  and  perspective  that  will  enable  our  readers 
to  perceive  more  readily  the  entire  picture. 

Edward  Howard  was  a  young  man  whose  brilliant  talents 
ami  captivating  manners  had  placed  him  first  in  the  society  in 
which  lie  moved.  Though  without  property  or  weight  of  fam- 
ily connections,  he  had  become  a  leader  in  the  circles  where 
these  appendages  are  most  considered,  and  there  were  none 
of  i heir  immunities  and  privileges  that  were  not  freely  at  his 
disposal. 

Augusta  Elmore  was  conspicuous  in  all  that  lies  within  the 
re  of  feminine  attainment.  She  was  an  orphan,  and  ac- 
CUStomed  from  ;i  wry  curly  age  to  the  five  enjoyment  and  con- 
trol of  an  independent  property.  This  circumstance,  doubt- 
add(  d  to  tin'  magic  of  her  personal  graces  in  procuring 
for  h<r  that  flattering  deference  which  beauty  and  wealth 
re. 


LET    EVERT    MAN    MIND    HIS    OWN    BUSINESS.  1G1 

Her  mental  powers  were  naturally  superior,  although,  from 
want  of  motive,  they  had  received  no  development,  except 
such  as  would  secure  success  in  society.  Native  good  sense, 
with  great  strength  of  feeling  and  independence  of  mind,  had 
saved  her  from  becoming  heartless  and  frivolous.  She  was 
better  fitted  to  lead  and  to  influence  than  to  be  influenced  or 
led.  And  hence,  though  not  swayed  by  any  habitual  sense  of 
moral  responsibility,  the  tone  of  her  character  seemed  alto- 
gether more  elevated  than  the  average  of  fashionable  society. 

General  expectation  had  united  the  destiny  of  two  persons 
who  seemed  every  way  fitted  for  each  other,  and  for  once  gen- 
eral expectation  did  not  err.  A  few  months  after  the  inter- 
view mentioned  were  witnessed  the  festivities  and  congratula- 
tions of  their  brilliant  and  happy  marriage. 

Never  did  two  young  persons  commence  life  under  happier 
auspices.  "  What  an  exact  match  ! "  "  What  a  beautiful 
couple  ! "  said  all  the  gossips.  "  They  seem  made  for  each 
other,"  said  every  one;  and  so  thought  the  happy  lovers 
themselves. 

Love,  which  with  persons  of  strong  character  is  always  an 
earnest  and  sobering  principle,  had  made  them  thoughtful  and 
considerate ;  and  as  they  looked  forward  to  future  life,  and  talked 
of  the  days  before  them,  their  plans  and  ideas  were  as  rational 
as  any  plans  can  be,  when  formed  entirely  with  reference  to 
this  life,  without  any  regard  to  another. 

For  a  while  their  absorbing  attachment  to  each  other  tended 
to  withdraw  them  from  the  temptations  and  allurements  of 
company ;  and  many  a  long  winter  evening  passed  delightful- 
ly in  the  elegant  quietude  of  home,  as  they  read,  and  sang, 
and  talked  of  the  past,  and  dreamed  of  the  future  in  each 
other's  society.  But,  contradictory  as  it  may  appear  to  the 
14* 


162  LET    EVERY   MAX    MIND    HIS    OWN    BUSINESS. 

theory  of  the  sentimentalist,  it  is  nevertheless  a  fact,  that  two 
persons  cannot  always  find  sufficient  excitement  in  talking  to 
each  other  merely;  and  this  is  especially  true  of  those  to 
whom  high  excitement  has  been  a  necessary  of  life.  After  a 
while,  the  young  couple,  though  loving  each  other  none  the 
less,  began  to  respond  to  the  many  calls  which  invited  them 
again  into  society,  and  the  pride  they  felt  in  each  other  added 
zest  to  the  pleasures  of  their  return. 

As  the  gaze  of  admiration  followed  the  graceful  motions  of 
the  beautiful  wife,  and  the  whispered  tribute  went  round  the 
circle  whenever  she  entered,  Edward  felt  a  pride  beyond  all 
that  flattery,  addressed  to  himself,  had  ever  excited  ;  and  Au- 
gusta, when  told  of  the  convivial  talents  and  powers  of  enter- 
tainment which  distinguished  her  husband,  could  not  resist  the 
temptation  of  urging  him  into  society  even  oftener  than  his 
own  wishes  would  have  led  him. 

Alas  !  neither  of  them  knew  the  perils  of  constant  excite- 
ment, nor  supposed  that,  in  thus  alienating  themselves  from  the 
pure  and  simple  pleasures  of  home,  they  were  risking  their 
whole  capital  of  happiness.  It  is  in  indulging  the  first  desire 
for  extra  stimulus  that  the  first  and  deepest  danger  to  domes- 
tic peace  lies.  Let  that  stimulus  be  either  bodily  or  mental, 
its  effects  are  alike  to  be  dreaded. 

The  man  or  the  woman  to  whom  habitual  excitement  of  any 
kind  has  become  essential  has  taken  the  first  step  towards 
ruin.  In  the  case  of  a  woman,  it  leads  to  discontent,  fretful- 
ness,  and  dissatisfaction  with  the  quiet  duties  of  domestic  life; 
in  the  case  of  a  man,  it  leads  almost  invariably  to  animal  stim- 
uli!-, ruinous  alike  to  the  powers  of  body  and  mind. 

Augusta,  loudly  trusting  to  the  virtue  of  her  husband,  saw 
no  danger  in  the  constant  round  of  engagements  which  were 


LET    EVERY    MAN    MIND    HIS    OWN    BUSINESS.  1G3 

gradually  drawing  his  attention  from  the  graver  cares  of  busi- 
ness, from  the  pursuit  of  self-improvement,  and  from  the  love 
of  herself.  Already  there  was  in  her  horizon  the  cloud  "  as 
big  as  a  man's  hand  "  —  the  precursor  of  future  darkness  and 
tempest ;  but,  too  confident  and  buoyant,  she  saw  it  not. 

It  was  not  until  the  cares  and  duties  of  a  mother  began  to 
confine  her  at  home,  that  she  first  felt,  with  a  startling  sensa- 
tion of  fear,  that  there  was  an  alteration  in  her  husband,  though 
even  then  the  change  was  so  shadowy  and  indefinite  that  it 
could  not  be  defined  by  words. 

It  was  known  by  that  quick,  prophetic  sense  which  reveals 
to  the  heart  of  woman  the  first  variation  in  the  pulse  of  affec- 
tion, though  it  be  so  flight  that  no  other  touch  can  detect  it. 

Edward  was  still  fond,  affectionate,  admiring;  and  when  he 
tendered  her  all  the  little  attentions  demanded  by  her  situa- 
tion, or  caressed  and  praised  his  beautiful  son,  she  felt  satisfied 
and  happy.  But  when  she  saw  that,  even  without  her,  the 
convivial  circle  had  its  attractions,  and  that  he  could  leave  her 
to  join  it,  she  sighed,  she  scarce  knew  why.  "  Surely,"  she 
said,  "  I  am  not  so  selfish  as  to  wish  to  rob  him  of  pleasure 
because  I  cannot  enjoy  it  with  him.  But  yet,  once  he  told 
me  there  was  no  pleasure  where  I  was  not.  Alas  !  is  it  true, 
what  I  have  so  often  heard,  that  such  feelings  cannot  always 
last  ?  " 

Poor  Augusta !  she  knew  not  how  deep  reason  she  had  to 
fear.  She  saw  not  the  temptations  that  surrounded  her  hus- 
band in  the  circles  where  to  all  the  stimulus  of  wit  and  intel- 
lect was  often  added  the  zest  of  wine,  used  far  too  freely  for 
safety. 

Already  had  Edward  become  familiar  with  a  degree  of 
physical  excitement  which  touches  the  very  verge  of  intoxica- 


1C-A  LET    EVERY    MAN    MIND    HIS    OWN    BUSINESS. 

tion  ;  yet,  strong  in  self-confidence,  and  deluded  by  the  cus- 
toms of  society,  lie  dreamed  not  of  danger.  The  traveller 
who  has  passed  above  the  rapids  of  Niagara  may  have  noticed 
the  spot  where  the  first  white  sparkling  ripple  announces  the 
downward  tendency  of  the  waters.  All  here  is  brilliancy  and 
beauty ;  and  as  the  waters  ripple  and  dance  in  the  sunbeam, 
they  seem  only  as  if  inspired  by  a  spirit  of  new  life,  and  not 
as  hastening  to  a  dreadful  fall.  So  the  first  approach  to 
intemperance,  that  ruins  both  body  and  soul,  seems  only 
like  the  buoyancy  and  exulting  freshness  of  a  new  life,  and  the 
unconscious  voyager  feels  his  bark  undulating  with  a  thrill  of 
delight,  ignorant  of  the  inexorable  hurry,  the  tremendous 
sweep,  with  which  the  laughing  waters  urge  him  on  beyond 
the  reach  of  hope  or  recovery. 

It  was  at  this  period  in  the  life  of  Edward  that  one  ju- 
dicious and  manly  friend,  who  would  have  had  the  courage  to 
point  out  to  him  the  danger  that  every  one  else  perceived, 
might  have  saved  him.  But  among  the  circle  of  his  acquaint- 
ances there  was  none  such.  "  Let  every  man  mind  his  own 
business "  was  their  universal  maxim.  True,  heads  were 
gravely  shaken,  and  Mr.  A.  regretted  to  Mr.  B.  that  so  prom- 
ising a  young  man  seemed  about  to  ruin  himself.  But  one 
was  "  no  relation  "  of  Edward's,  and  the  other  "  felt  a  delicacy 
in  speaking  on  such  a  subject,"  and  therefore,  according  to  a 
very  ancient  precedent,  they  "  passed  by  on  the  other  side." 
Y<  t  it  was  at  Mr.  A.'s  sideboard,  always  sparkling  with  the 
choicest  wine,  that  he  had  felt  the  first  excitement  of  extra 
stimulus;  it  was  at  Mr.  B.'s  house  that  the  convivial  club  be- 
gun to  hold  their  meetings,  which,  alter  a  time,  found  a 
more  appropriate  place  in  a  public  hotel.  It  is  thus  that 
tin-  sober,  the  regular,  and   the   discreet,  whose   constitution 


LET    EVERY    MAN    MIND    HIS    OWN    BUSINESS.  1G5 

saves  them  from  liabilities  to  excess,  Avill  accompany  the  ar- 
dent and  excitable  to  the  very  verge  of  danger,  and  then  won- 
der at  their  want  of  self-control. 

It  was  a  cold  winter  evening,  and  the  wind  whistled  drear- 
ily around  the  closed  shutters  of  the  parlor  in  which  Augusta 
was  sitting.  Every  thing  around  her  bore  the  marks  of  ele- 
gance and  comfort. 

Splendid  books  and  engravings  lay  about  in  every  direction. 
Vases  of  rare  and  costly  flowers  exhaled  perfume,  and  mag- 
nificent mirrors  multiplied  every  object.  All  spoke  of  luxury 
and  repose,  save  the  anxious  and  sad  countenance  of  its 
mistress. 

It  was  late,  and  she  had  watched  anxiously  for  her  husband 
for  many  long  hours.  She  drew  out  her  gold  and.  diamond 
repeater,  and  looked  at  it.  It  was  long  past  midnight.  She 
sighed  as  she  remembered  the  pleasant  evenings  they  had 
passed  together,  as  her  eye  fell  on  the  books  they  had  read 
together,  and  on  her  piano  and  harp,  now  silent,  and  thought 
of  all  he  had  said  and  looked  in  those  days  when  each  was  all 
to  the  other. 

She  was  aroused  from  this  melancholy  revery  by  a  loud 
knocking  at  the  street  door.  She  hastened  to  open  it,  but 
started  back  at  the  sight  it  disclosed  —  her  husband  borne  by 
four  men. 

"  Dead !  is  he  dead  ?  "  she  screamed,  in  agony. 

"  No,  ma'am,"  said  one  of  the  men,  "  but  he  might  as  well 
be  dead  as  in  such  a  fix  as  this." 

The  Avhole  truth,  in  all  its  degradation,  flashed  on  the  mind 
of  Augusta.  Without  a  question  or  comment,  she  motioned 
to  the  sofa  in  the  parlor,  and  her  husband  was  laid  there. 
She  locked  the  street  door,  and  when  the  last  retreating  foot- 


1G6  LET    EVERT    MAX    MIND    HIS    OWN    BUSINESS. 

step  had  died  away,  she  turned  to  the  sofa,  and  stood  gazing 
in  fixed  and  almost  stupefied  silence  on  the  face  of  her  sense- 
less husband. 

At  once  she  realized  the  whole  of  her  fearful  lot.  She 
saw  before  her  the  blight  of  her  own  affections,  the  ruin  of 
her  helpless  children,  the  disgrace  and  misery  of  her  husband. 
She  looked  around  her  in  helpless  despair,  for  she  well  knew 
the  power  of  the  vice  whose  deadly  seal  was  set  upon  her 
husband.  As  one  who  is  struggling  and  sinking  in  the  waters 
casts  a  last  dizzy  glance  at  the  green  sunny  banks  and  distant 
trees  which  seem  sliding  from  his  view,  so  did  all  the  scenes 
of  her  happy  days  pass  in  a  moment  before  her,  and  she 
groaned  aloud  in  bitterness  of  spirit.  "  Great  God  !  help  me, 
help  me,"  she  prayed.     "  Save  him  —  O,  save  my  husband." 

Augusta  was  a  woman  of  no  common  energy  of  spirit,  and 
when  the  first  wild  burst  of  anguish  was  over,  she  resolved 
not  to  be  wanting  to  her  husband  and  children  in  a  crisis  so 
dreadful. 

"  When  he  awakes,"  she  mentally  exclaimed,  "  I  will  warn 
and  implore;  I  will  pour  out  my  whole  soul  to  save  him. 
My  poor  husband,  you  have  been  misled  —  betrayed.  But 
you  are  too  good,  too  generous,  too  noble  to  be  sacrificed  with- 
out ;i  struggle." 

It  was  late  the  next  morning  before  the  stupor  in  which 
Edward  was  plunged  began  to  pass  off.  lie  slowly  opened 
his  eyes,  started  up  wildly,  gazed  hurriedly  around  the  room, 
till  his  eye  met  the  fixed  and  sorrowful  gaze  of  his  wife.  The 
pa  ;  instantly  flashed  upon  him,  and  a  deep  Hush  passed  over 
his  countenance.  There  was  a  dead,  a  solemn  silence,  until 
Augusta,  yielding  to  her  agony,  threw  herself  into  his  arms, 
and  wept. 


LET    EVERY    MAN    MIND    HIS    OWN    BUSINESS.  1G7 

"Then  you  do  not  hate  me,  Augusta?"  said  he,  sorrow- 
fully. 

"  Hate  you  —  never  !  But,  O  Edward,  Edward,  what  has 
beguiled  you  ?  " 

"  My  wife  —  you  once  promised  to  be  my  guardian  in  vir- 
tue—  such  you  are,  and  will  be.  0  Augusta!  you  have 
looked  on  what  you  shall  never  see  again  —  never  — 
never  —  so  help  me  God ! "  said  he,  looking  up  with  solemn 
earnestness. 

And  Augusta,  as  she  gazed  on  the  noble  face,  the  ardent 
expression  of  sincerity  and  remorse,  could  not  doubt  that  her 
husband  was  saved.  But  Edward's  plan  of  reformation  had 
one  grand  defect.  It  was  merely  modification  and  retrench- 
ment, and  not  entire  abandonment.  He  could  not  feel  it 
necessary  to  cut  himself  off  entirely  from  the  scenes  and  asso- 
ciations where  temptation  had  met  him.  He  considered  not 
that,  when  the  temperate  flow  of  the  blood  and  the  even  bal- 
ance of  the  nerves  have  once  been  destroyed,  there  is,  ever 
after,  a  double  and  fourfold  liability,  which  often  makes  a  man 
the  sport  of  the  first  untoward  chance. 

He  still  contrived  to  stimulate  sufficiently  to  prevent  the 
return  of  a  calm  and  healthy  state  of  the  mind  and  body,  and 
to  make  constant  self-control  and  watchfulness  necessary. 

It  is  a  great  mistake  to  call  nothing  intemperance  but  that 
degree  of  physical  excitement  which  completely  overthrows 
the  mental  powers.  There  is  a  state  of  nervous  excitability, 
resulting  from  what  is  often  called  moderate  stimulation,  which 
often  long  precedes  this,  and  is,  in  regard  to  it,  like  the  premon- 
itory warnings  of  the  fatal  cholera  —  an  unsuspected  draught 
on  the  vital  powers,  from  which,  at  any  moment,  they  may 
sink  into  irremediable  collapse. 


1G8  LET    EVERY    MAN    MIND    HIS    OWN    BUSINESS. 

It  is  in  this  state,  often,  that  the  spirit  of  gambling  or  of 
wild  speculation  is  induced  by  the  morbid  cravings  of  an  over- 
stimulated  system.  Unsatisfied  with  the  healthy  and  regular 
routine  of  business,  and  the  laws  of  gradual  and  solid  pros- 
perity, the  excited  and  unsteady  imagination  leads  its  subjects 
to  daring  risks,  with  the  alternative  of  unbounded  gain  on  the 
one  side,  or  of  utter  ruin  on  the  other.  And  when,  as  is  too 
often  the  case,  that  ruin  comes,  unrestrained  and  desperate 
intemperance  is  the  wretched  resort  to  allay  the  ravings  of 
disappointment  and  despair. 

Such  was  the  case  with  Edward.  He  bad  lost  bis  interest 
in  his  regular  business,  and  he  embarked  the  bulk  of  his  prop- 
erty in  a  brilliant  scheme  then  in  vogue ;  and  when  he  found 
a  crisis  coming,  threatening  ruin  and  beggary,  he  had  recourse 
to  the  fatal  stimulus,  which,  alas !  he  had  never  wholly  aban- 
doned. 

At  this  time  he  spent  some  months  in  a  distant  city, 
separated  from  his  wife  and  family,  while  the  insidious 
power  of  temptation  daily  increased,  as  he  kept  up,  by  ar- 
tificial stimulus,  the  flagging  vigor  of  his  mind  and  nervous 
system. 

It  came  at  last  —  the  blow  which  shattered  alike  his  brilliant 
dreams  and  his  real  prosperity.  The  large  fortune  brought 
by  his  wife  vanished  in  a  moment,  so  that  scarcely  a  pittance 
remained  in  his  hands.  From  the  distant  city  where  he  had 
been  to  superintend  his  schemes,  he  thus  wrote  to  his  too  con- 
fiding wife :  — 

"Augusta,  all  is  over!  expect  no  more  from  your  husband 
—  believe  no  more  of  his  promises  —  for  he  is  lost  to  you  and 
you  (o  him.  Augusta,  our  property  is  gone;  your  property, 
which  I  have  blindly  risked,  is  all  swallowed  up.     But  is  that 


LET    EVERY    MAN    MIND    HIS    OWN    BUSINESS.  1 G9 

the  worst  ?  No,  no,  Augusta ;  I  am  lost  —  lost,  body  and  soul, 
and  as  irretrievably  as  the  perishing  riches  I  have  squandered. 
Once  I  had  energy  —  health  —  nerve  —  resolution;  but  all 
are  gone  :  yes,  yes,  I  have  yielded  —  I  do  yield  daily  to  what 
is  at  once  my  tormentor  and  my  temporary  refuge  from  intol- 
erable misery.  You  remember  the  sad  hour  you  first  knew 
your  husband  was  a  drunkard.  Your  look  on  that  morning 
of  misery  —  shall  I  ever  forget  it  ?  Yet,  blind  and  confiding 
as  you  were,  how  soon  did  your  ill-judged  confidence  in  me 
return !  Vain  hopes !  I  was  even  then  past  recovery  — 
even  then  sealed  over  to  blackness  of  darkness  forever. 

"  Alas  !  my  wife,  my  peerless  wife,  why  am  I  your  hus- 
band ?  why  the  father  of  such  children  as  you  have  given  me  ? 
Is  there  nothing  in  your  unequalled  loveliness  —  nothing  in 
the  innocence  of  our  helpless  babes,  that  is  powerful  enough 
to  recall  me  ?     No,  there  is  not. 

"  Augusta,  you  know  not  the  dreadful  gnawing,  the  intol- 
erable agony  of  this  master  passion.  I  walk  the  floor  —  I 
think  of  my  own  dear  home,  my  high  hopes,  my  proud 
expectations,  my  children,  my  wife,  my  own  immortal 
soul.  I  feel  that  I  am  sacrificing  all  —  feel  it  till  I  am 
withered  with  agony;  but  the  hour  comes  —  the  burning 
hour,  and  all  is  in  vain.  I  shall  return  to  you  no  more, 
Augusta.  All  the  little  wreck  I  have  saved  I  send :  you 
have  friends,  relatives  —  above  all,  you  have  an  energy  of 
mind,  a  capacity  of  resolute  action,  beyond  that  of  ordinary 
women,  and  you  shall  never  be  bound  —  the  living  to  the 
dead.  True,  you  will  suffer,  thus  to  burst  the  bonds  that 
unite  us  ;  but  be  resolute,  for  you  will  suffer  more  to  watch 
from  day  to  day  the  slow  workings  of  death  and  ruin  in 
your  husband.  Would  yon  stay  with  me,  to  see  every  ves- 
15 


170  LET    EYEBY    MAN    MIND    HIS    OWN    BUSINESS. 

tige  of  what  you  once  loved  passing  away  —  to  endure  the 
caprice,  the  moroseness,  the  delirious  anger  of  one  no  longer 
master  of  himself?  Would  you  make  your  children  victims 
and  fellow-sufferers  with  you  ?  ISo  !  dark  and  dreadful  is 
my  path  !     I  will  walk  it  alone  :  no  one  shall  go  with  me. 

"  In  some  peaceful  retirement  you  may  concentrate  your 
strong  feelings  upon  your  children,  and  bring  them  up  to  fill  a 
place  in  your  heart  which  a  worthless  husband  has  abandoned. 
If  I  leave  you  now,  you  will  remember  me  as  I  have  been  — 
you  will  love  me  and  weep  for  me  when  dead ;  but  if  you 
stay  with  me,  your  love  will  be  worn  out ;  I  shall  become  the 
object  of  disgust  and  loathing.  Therefore  farewell,  my  wife  — 
my  first,  best  love,  farewell !  with  you  I  part  with  hope,  — 

•  And  with  hope,  farewell  fear, 
Farewell  remorse  :  all  good  to  me  is  lost  : 
Evil,  be  thou  my  good.' 

This  is  a  wild  strain,  but  fit  for  me  :  do  not  seek  for  me,  do 
not  write  :  nothing  can  save  me." 

Thus  abruptly  began  and  ended  the  letter  that  conveyed  to 
Augusta  the  death  doom  of  her  hopes.  There  are  moments 
of  agony  when  the  most  worldly  heart  is  pressed  upward  to 
God,  even  as  a  weight  will  force  upward  the  reluctant  water. 
Augusta  had  been  a  generous,  a  high-minded,  an  affectionate 
woman,  but  she  had  lived  entirely  for  this  world.  Her  chief 
good  had  been  her  husband  and  her  children.  These  had 
been  her  pride,  her  reliance,  her  dependence.  Strong  in  her 
own  resources,  she  had  never  felt  the  need  of  looking  to  a 
higher  power  for  assistance  and  happiness.  But  when  this 
letter  fell  from  her  trembling  hand,  her  heart  died  within  her 
at  its  wild  and  reckless  bitterness. 


LET    EVERY    MAN    MIND    HIS    OWN    BUSINESS.  171. 

In  her  desperation  she  looked  up  to  God.  "  What  have  I 
to  live  for  now  ?  "  was  the  first  feeling  of  her  heart. 

But  she  repressed  this  inquiry  of  selfish  agony,  and  besought 
almighty  assistance  to  nerve  her  weakness ;  and  here  first 
began  that  practical  acquaintance  with  the  truths  and  hopes 
of  religion  which  changed  her  whole  character. 

The  possibility  of  blind,  confiding  idolatry  of  any  earthly 
object  was  swept  away  by  the  fall  of  her  husband,  and  with 
the  full  energy  of  a  decided  and  desolate  spirit,  she  threw 
herself  on  the  protection  of  an  almighty  Helper.  She  fol- 
lowed her  husband  to  the  city  whither  he  had  gone,  found 
him,  and  vainly  attempted  to  save. 

There  were  the  usual  alternations  of  short-lived  reforma- 
tions, exciting  hopes  only  to  be  destroyed.  There  was  the 
gradual  sinking  of  the  body,  the  decay  of  moral  feeling  and 
principle  —  the  slow  but  sure  approach  of  disgusting  animal- 
ism, which  marks  the  progress  of  the  drunkard. 

It  was  some  years  after  that  a  small  and  partly  ruinous 
tenement  in  the  outskirts  of  A.  received  a  new  family.  The 
group  consisted  of  four  children,  whose  wan  and  wistful  coun- 
tenances, and  still,  unchildlike  deportment,  testified  an  early 
acquaintance  with  want  and  sorrow.  There  was  the  mother, 
faded  and  care-worn,  whose  dark  and  melancholy  eyes,  pale 
cheeks,  and  compressed  lips  told  of  years  of  anxiety  and  en- 
durance. There  was  the  father,  with  haggard  face,  unsteady 
6tep,  and  that  callous,  reckless  air,  that  betrayed  long  familiar- 
ity with  degradation  and  crime.  Who,  that  had  seen  Edward 
Howard  in  the  morning  and  freshness  of  his  days,  could  have 
recognized  him  in  this  miserable  husband  and  father  ?  or  who, 
W  this  worn  and  woe-stricken  woman,  would  have  known  the 
eautiful,  brilliant,    and   accomplished    Augusta  ?     Yet   such 


172        let  every  man  mind  his  ovx  business. 

changes  are  not  fancy,  as  many  a  bitter  and  broken  heart  can 
testify. 

Augusta  had  followed  her  guilty  husband  through  many  a 
change  and  many  a  weary  wandering.  All  hope  of  reforma- 
tion had  gradually  faded  away.  Her  own  eyes  had  seen,  her 
ears  had  heard,  all  those  disgusting  details,  too  revolting  to  be 
portrayed  ;  for  in  drunkenness  there  is  no  royal  road  —  no 
salvo  for  greatness  of  mind,  refinement  of  taste,  or  tenderness 
of  feeling.  All  alike  are  merged  in  the  corruption  of  a  moral 
death. 

The  traveller,  who  met  Edward  reeling  by  the  roadside, 
was  sometimes  startled  to  hear  the  fragments  of  classical  lore, 
or  wild  bursts  of  half-remembered  poetry,  mixing  strangely 
with  the  imbecile  merriment  of  intoxication.  But  when  he 
stopped  to  gaze,  there  was  no  further  mark  on  his  face  or  in 
his  eye  by  which  he  could  be  distinguished  from  the  loathsome 
and  lowest  drunkard. 

Augusta  had  come  with  her  husband  to  a  city  where  they 
were  wholly  unknown,  that  she  might  at  least  escape  the  deg- 
radation of  their  lot  in  the  presence  of  those  who  had  known 
them  in  better  days.  The  long  and  dreadful  struggle  that  an- 
nihilated the  hopes  of  this  life  had  raised  her  feelings  to  rest 
upon  the  next,  and  the  habit  of  communion  with  God,  induced 
by  sorrows  which  nothing  else  could  console,  had  given  a  ten- 
der dignity  to  her  character  such  as  nothing  else  could  bestow. 

It  is  true,  she  deeply  loved  her  children  ;  but  it  was  with  a 
holy,  chastened  love,  such  as  inspired  the  sentiment  once 
breathed  by  Him  "who  was  made  perfect  through  sufferings." 

"  For  their  Bakes  I  sanctify  myself,  that  they  also  may  be 
sanctified." 

Poverty,  deep  poverty,  had  followed  their  steps,  but  yet  she 


LET    EVERY    MAX    MIND    HIS    OWN    BUSINESS.  173 

bad  not  fainted.  Talents  which  in  her  happier  days  had  been 
nourished  merely  as  luxuries,  were  now  stretched  to  the  utmost 
to  furnish  a  support;  while  from  the  resources  of  her  own 
reading  she  drew  that  which  laid  the  foundation  for  early  men- 
tal culture  in  her  children. 

Augusta  had  been  here  but  a  few  weeks  before  her  footsteps 
were  traced  by  her  only  brother,  who  had  lately  discovered 
her  situation,  and  urged  her  to  forsake  her  unworthy  husband 
and  find  refuge  with  him. 

"  Augusta,  my  sister,  I  have  found  you  !  "  he  exclaimed,  as 
he  suddenly  entered  one  day,  while  she  was  busied  with  the 
work  of  her  family. 

"  Henry,  my  dear  brother  !  "  There  was  a  momentary  illu- 
mination of  countenance  accompanying  these  words,  which 
soon  faded  into  a  mournful  quietness,  as  she  cast  her  eyes 
around  on  the  scanty  accommodations  and  mean  apartment. 

"  I  see  how  it  is,  Augusta  ;  step  by  step,  you  are  sinking  — 
dragged  down  by  a  vain  sense  of  duty  to  one  no  longer  wor- 
thy. I  cannot  bear  it  any  longer ;  I  have  come  to  take  you 
away." 

Augusta  turned  from  him,  and  looked  abstractedly  out  of 
the  window.  Her  features  settled  in  thought.  Their  expres- 
sion gradually  deepened  from  their  usual  tone  of  mild,  resigned 
sorrow  to  one  of  keen  anguish. 

"  Henry,"  said  she,  turning  towards  him,  "  never  was  mor- 
tal woman  so  blessed  in  another  as  I  once  was  in  him.  How 
can  I  forget  it  ?  "Who  knew  him  in  those  days  that  did  not 
admire  and  love  him  ?  They  tempted  and  insnared  him ; 
and  even  I  urged  him  into  the  path  of  danger.  He  fell,  and 
there  was  none  to  help.  I  urged  reformation,  and  he  again 
and  again  promised,  "resolved,  and  began.  But  again  they 
15* 


174  LET    EVERY    MAN    MIND    HIS    OWN    BUSINESS. 

tempted  him  —  even  his  very  best  friends  ;  yes,  and  that,  too, 
when  they  knew  his  danger.  They  led  him  on  as  far  as  it 
was  sate  for  them  to  go,  and  when  the  sweep  of  his  more  ex- 
citable temperament  took  him  past  the  point  of  safety  and 
decency,  they  stood  by,  and  coolly  wondered  and  lamented. 
How  often  was  he  led  on  by  such  heartless  friends  to  humili- 
ating falls,  and  then  driven  to  desperation  by  the  cold  look, 
averted  faces,  and  cruel  sneers  of  those  whose  medium  tem- 
perament and  cooler  blood  saved  them  from  the  snares  which 
they  saw  were  enslaving  him.  What  if  I  had  forsaken  him 
then  ?  What  account  should  I  have  rendered  to  God  ?  Ev- 
ery time  a  friend  has  been  alienated  by  his  comrades,  it  has 
seemed  to  seal  him  with  another  seal.  I  am  his  wife  —  and 
mine  will  be  the  last.  Henry,  when  I  leave  him,  I  know  his 
eternal  ruin  is  sealed.  I  cannot  do  it  now  ;  a  little  longer  — 
a  little  longer  ;  the  hour,  I  see,  must  come.  I  know  my  duty 
to  my  children  forbids  me  to  keep  them  here  ;  take  them  — 
they  are  my  last  earthly  comforts,  Henry  —  but  you  must 
take  them  away.  It  may  be  —  O  God  —  perhaps  it  must  be, 
that  I  shall  soon  follow ;  but  not  till  I  have  tried  once  more. 
What  is  tliis  present  life  to  one  who  has  suffered  as  I  have? 
Notln- j  But  eternity!  0  Henry!  eternity  —  how  can  I 
...ion  him  to  everlasting  despair  !  Under  the  breaking  of 
my  heart  I  have  borne  up.     I  have  borne  up  under  all  that 

can  try  a  woman  ;  but  this  thought "     She  stopped,  and 

seemed  struggling  with  herself;  but  at  last,  borne  down  by  a 
tide  of  agony,  she  leaned  her  head  on  her  hands;  the  tears 
Btreamed  through  her  fingers,  and  her  whole  frame  shook  with 
convulsive  sobs. 

Her  brother  wept  with  her;  nor  dared  he  again  to  touch 
the  point  so  solemnly  guarded.     The  next  day  Augusta  parted 


LET    EVERY    MAN    MIND    HIS    OWN    BUSINESS.  175 

from  her  children,  hoping  something  from  feelings  that,  possi- 
bly, might  be  stirred  by  their  absence  in  the  bosom  of  their 
father. 

It  was  about  a  week  after  this  that  Augusta  one  evening 
presented  herself  at  the  door  of  a  rich  Mr.  L.,  whose  princely 
mansion  was  one  of  the  ornaments  of  the  city  of  A.  It  was 
not  till  she  reached  the  sumptuous  drawing  room  that  she 
recognized  in  Mr.  L.  one  whom  she  and  her  husband  had  fre- 
quently met  in  the  gay  circles  of  their  early  life.  Altered  as 
she  was,  Mr.  L.  did  not  recognize  her,  but  compassionately 
handed  her  a  chair,  and  requested  her  to  wait  the  return  of 
his  lady,  who  was  out ;  and  then  turning,  he  resumed  his  con- 
versation with  another  gentleman. 

"  Now,  Dallas,"  said  he,  "  you  are  altogether  excessive  and 
intemperate  in  this  matter.  Society  is  not  to  be  reformed  by 
every  man  directing  his  efforts  towards  his  neighbor,  but  by 
every  man  taking  care  of  himself.  It  is  you  and  I,  my  dear 
sir,  who  must  begin  with  ourselves,  and  every  other  man  must 
do  the  same ;  and  then  society  will  be  effectually  reformed. 
Now  this  modern  way,  by  which  every  man  considers  it  his 
duty  to  attend  to  the  spiritual  matters  of  his  next-door  neigh- 
bor, is  taking  the  business  at  the  wrong  end  altogether.  It 
makes  a  vast  deal  of  appearance,  but  it  does  very  little  good." 

"  But  suppose  your  neighbor  feels  no  disposition  to  attend 
to  his  own  improvement  —  what  then  ?  " 

"  Why,  then  it  is  his  own  concern,  and  not  mine.  What  my 
Maker  requires  is,  that  I  do  my  duty,  and  not  fret  about  my 
neighbor's." 

"  But,  my  friend,  that  is  the  very  question.  What  is  the 
duty  your  Maker  requires  ?  Does  it  not  include  some  regard 
to  your  neighbor,  some  care  and  thought  for  his  interest  and 
improvement  ?  " 


17G  LET    EVERY    MAN    MIND    HIS    OWN    BUSINESS. 

"  Well,  well,  I  do  that  by  setting  a  good  example.  I  do  not 
mean  by  example  what  you  do  —  that  is,  that  I  am  to  stop 
drinking  wine  because  it  may  lead  him  to  drink  brandy,  any 
more  than  that  I  must  stop  eating  because  he  may  eat  too 
much  and  become  a  dyspeptic  —  but  that  I  am  to  use  my 
wine,  and  every  thing  else,  temperately  and  decently,  and  thus 
set  him  a  good  example." 

The  conversation  was  here  interrupted  by  the  return  of 
Mrs.  L.  It  recalled,  in  all  its  freshness,  to  the  mind  of  Au- 
gusta the  days  when  both  she  and  her  husband  had  thus 
spoken   and  thought. 

Ah,  how  did  these  sentiments  appear  to  her  now  —  lonely, 
helpless,  forlorn  —  the  wife  of  a  ruined  husband,  the  mother 
of  more  than  orphan  children  !  How  different  from  what  they 
seemed,  when,  secure  in  ease,  in  wealth,  in  gratified  affections, 
she  thoughtlessly  echoed  the  common  phraseology,  "  Why 
must  people  concern  themselves  so  much  in  their  neighbors' 
affairs  ?     Let  every  man  mind  his  own  business." 

Augusta  received  in  silence  from  Mrs.  L.  the  fine  sewing 
for  which  she  came,  and  left  the  room. 

"  Ellen,"  said  Mr.  L.  to  his  wife,  "  that  poor  woman  must 
be  in  trouble  of  some  kind  or  other.  You  must  go  some  time, 
and  see  if  any  thing  can  be  done  for  her." 

"  How  singular ! "  said  Mrs.  L.  ;  "  she  reminds  me  all  the 
time  of  Augusta  Howard.     You  remember  her,  my  dear  ?  " 

u  Yes,  poor  thing  !  and  her  husband  too.  That  was  a  shock- 
ing affair  of  Edward  Howard's.  I  hear  that  he  became  an 
intemperate,  worthless  fellow.     Who  could  have  thought  it  !" 

"  But  you  recollect,  my  dear,"  said  Mrs.  L.,  "  I  predicted  it 
six  months  before  it  was  talked  of.  You  remember,  at  the 
wine  party  which  you  gave  after    Mary's  wedding,  he  was 


LET    EVERY    MAN    MIND    HIS    OWN    BUSINESS.  177 

so  excited  that  lie  was  hardly  decent.  I  mentioned  then  that 
he  was  getting  into  dangerous  ways.  But  he  was  such  an 
excitable  creature,  that  two  or  three  glasses  would  put  him 
quite  beside  himself.  And  there  is  George  Eldon,  who  takes 
off  his  ten  or  twelve  glasses,  and  no  one  suspects  it." 

"  Well,  it  was  a  great  pity,"  replied  Mr.  L. ;  "  Howard  was 
worth  a  dozen  George  Eldons." 

"  Do  you  suppose,"  said  Dallas,  who  had  listened  thus  far 
in  silence,  "  that  if  he  had  moved  in  a  circle  where  it  was  the 
universal  custom  to  banish  all  stimulating  drinks,  he  would 
thus  have  fallen  ?  " 

"  I  cannot  say,"  said  Mr.  L. ;  "  perhaps  not." 

Mr.  Dallas  was  a  gentleman  of  fortune  and'leisure,  and  of 
an  ardent  and  enthusiastic  temperament.  Whatever  engaged 
him  absorbed  his  whole  soul ;  and  of  late  years,  his  mind  had 
become  deeply  engaged  in  schemes  of  philanthropy  for  the 
improvement  of  his  fellow-men.  He  had,  in  his  benevolent 
ministrations,  often  passed  the  dwelling  of  Edward,  and  was 
deeply  interested  in  the  pale  and  patient  wife  and  mother. 
He  made  acquaintance  with  her  through  the  aid  of  her  chil- 
dren, and,  in  one  way  and  another,  learned  particulars  of  their 
history  that  awakened  the  deepest  interest  and  concern. 
None  but  a  mind  as  sanguine  as  his  would  have  dreamed  of 
attempting  to  remedy  such  hopeless  misery  by  the  reformation 
of  him  who  was  its  cause.  But  such  a  plan  had  actually  oc- 
curred to  him.  The  remarks  of  Mr.  and  Mrs.  L.  recalled  the 
idea,  and  he  soon  found  that  his  intended  protege  was  the 
very  Edward  Howard  whose  early  history  was  thus  disclosed. 
He  learned  all  the  minutiae  from  these  his  early  associates 
without  disclosing  his  aim,  and  left  them  still  more  resolved 
upon  his  benevolent  plan. 


178  LET    EVERY    MAN    MIND    HIS    OWN    BUSINESS. 

He  watched  his  opportunity  when  Edward  was  free  from 
the  influence  of  stimulus,  and  it  was  just  after  the  loss  of  his 
children  had  called  forth  some  remains  of  his  better  nature. 
Gradually  and  kindly  he  tried  to  touch  the  springs  of  his  mind, 
and  awaken  some  of  its  buried  sensibilities. 

"  It  is  in  vain,  3Ir.  Dallas,  to  talk  thus  to  me,"  said  Edward, 
when,  one  day,  with  the  strong  eloquence  of  excited  feeling, 
he  painted  the  motives  for  attempting  reformation ;  "  you 
might  as  well  attempt  to  reclaim  the  lost  in  hell.  Do  you 
think,"  he  continued,  in  a  wild,  determined  manner  —  "do 
you  think  I  do  not  know  all  you  can  tell  me  ?  I  have  it  all  by 
heart,  sir  ;  no  one  can  preach  such  discourses  as  I  can  on  this 
subject:  I  know  all  —  believe  all  —  as  the  devils  believe  and 
tremble." 

"Ay,  but,"  said  Dallas,  "to  you  there  is  hope  ;  you  are  not 
to  ruin  yourself  forever." 

"  And  who  the  devil  are  you,  to  speak  to  me  in  this  way  ?  " 
said  Edward,  looking  up  from  his  sullen  despair  with  a  gleam 
of  curiosity,  if  not  of  hope. 

"  God's  messenger  to  you,  Edward  Howard,"  said  Dallas, 
fixing  his  keen  eye  upon  him  solemnly;  "to  you,  Edward 
Howard,  who  have  thrown  away  talents,  hope,  and  health  — 
who  have  blasted  the  heart  of  your  wife,  and  beggared  your 
suffering  children.  To  you  I  am  the  messenger  of  your  God 
—  by  me  he  offers  health,  and  hope,  and  self-respect,  and  the 
regard  of  your  fellow-men.  You  may  heal  the  broken  heart 
of  your  wife,  and  give  back  a  father  to  your  helpless  children. 
Think  of  it,  Howard  :  what  if  it  were  possible  ?  Only  suppose 
it.  What  would  it  be  again  to  feel  yourself  a  man,  beloved 
and  respected  as  you  once  were,  with  a  happy  home,  a  cheer- 
ful wife,  and  smiling  little  ones  ?     Think  how  you  could  repay 


LET    EVERY    MAN    MIND    HIS    OWN    BUSINESS.  179 

your  poor  wife  for  all  her  tears!  What  hinders  you  from 
gaining  all  this  ?  *' 

"  Just  what  hindered  the  rich  man  in  hell  —  <  between  us 
there  is  a  great  gulf fixed  ;'  it  lies  between  me  and  all  that  is 
good  ;  my  wife,  my  children,  my  hope  of  heaven,  are  all  on 
the  other  side." 

"Ay,  but  this  gulf  can  be  passed:  Howard,  what  ivould 
you  give  to  be  a  temperate  man  ?  " 

"  What  would  I  give  ?  "  said  Howard.  He  thought  for  a 
moment,  and  burst  into  tears. 

"  Ah,  I  see  how  it  is,"  said  Dallas ;  «  you  need  a  friend, 
and   God  has  sent  you  one." 

"  What  can  you  do  for  me,  Mr.  Dallas  ?  "  said  Edward,  in 
a  tone  of  wonder  at  the  confidence  of  his  assurances. 

"  I  will  tell  you  what  I  can  do  :  I  can  take  you  to  my 
house,  and  give  you  a  room,  and  watch  over  you  until  the 
strongest  temptations  are  past—  I  can  give  you  business  again. 
I  can  do  all  for  you  that  needs  to  be  done,  if  you  will  give 
yourself*  to  my  care." 

"  O  God  of  mercy  !  "  exclaimed  the  unhappy  man,  "  is  there 
hope  for  me  ?  I  cannot  believe  it  possible ;  but  take  me 
where  you  choose  —  I  will  follow  and  obey." 

A  few  hours  witnessed  the  transfer  of  the  lost  husband  to 
one  of  the  retired  apartments  in  the  elegant  mansion  of  Dal- 
las, where  he  found  his  anxious  and  grateful  wife  still  stationed 
as  his  watchful  guardian. 

Medical  treatment,  healthful  exercise,  useful  employment, 
simple  food,  and  pure  water  were  connected  with  a  personal 
supervision  by  Dallas,  which,  while  gently  and  politely  sus- 
tained, at  first  amounted  to  actual  imprisonment. 

For  a  time  the  reaction   from  the  sudden    suspension   of 


180  LET    EVERY    MAN    MIND    HIS    OWN    BUSINESS. 

habitual  stimulus  was  dreadful,  and  even  with  tears  did  the 
unhappy  man  entreat  to  be  permitted  to  abandon  the  under- 
taking. But  the  resolute  steadiness  of  Dallas  and  the  tender 
entreaties  of  his  wife  prevailed.  It  is  true  that  he  might  be 
said  to  be  saved  "  so  as  by  fire  ; "  for  a  fever,  and  a  long  and 
fierce  delirium,  wasted  him  almost  to  the  borders  of  the 
grave. 

But,  at  length,  the  struggle  between  life  and  death  was 
over,  and  though  it  left  him  stretched  on  the  bed  of  sickness, 
emaciated  and  weak,  yet  he  was  restored  to  his  right  mind, 
and  was  conscious  of  returning  health.  Let  any  one  who  has 
laid  a  friend  in  the  grave,  and  known  what  it  is  to  have  the 
heart  fail  with  longing  for  them  day  by  day,  imagine  the 
dreamy  and  unreal  joy  of  Augusta  when  she  began  again  to 
see  in  Edward  the  husband  so  long  lost  to  her.  It  was  as 
if  the  grave  had  given  back  the  dead. 

"  Augusta ! "  said  he,  faintly,  as,  after  a  long  and  quiet 
sleep,  he  awoke  free  from  delirium.  She  bent  over  him. 
"  Augusta,  I  am  redeemed  —  I  am  saved  —  I  feel  in  myself 
that  I  am    made  whole." 

The  high  heart  of  Augusta  melted  at  these  words.  She 
trembled  and  wept.  Her  husband  wept  also,  and  after  a 
pause  he  continued,  — 

"  It  is  more  than  being  restored  to  this  life  —  I  feel  that  it 
is  the  beginning  of  eternal  life.  It  is  the  Savior  who  sought 
me  out,  and  I  know  that  he  is  able  to  keep  me  from  falling." 

But  we  will  draw  a  veil  over  a  scene  which  words  have  little 
power  to  paint. 

"  Pray,  Dallas,"  said  Mr.  L.,  one  day,  "  who  is  that  fine- 
looking  young  man  whom  I  met  in  your  office  this  morning  ? 
I  thought  his  face  seemed  familiar." 


LET    EVERY   MAN    MIND    HIS    OWN    BUSINESS.  181 

"  It  is  a  Mr.  Howard  —  a  young  lawyer  whom  I  have  lately 
taken  into  business  with  me." 

"  Strange  !  Impossible  ! "  said  Mr.  L.  "  Surely  this  can- 
not be  the  Howard  that  I  once  knew." 

"  I  believe  he  is,"  said  Mr.  Dallas. 

"  Why,  I  thought  he  was  gone  — » dead  and  done  over,  long 
ago,  with  intemperance." 

"  He  was  so ;  few  have  ever  sunk  lower ;  but  he  now  prom- 
ises even  to  outdo  all  that  was  hoped  of  him." 

"  Strange !  Why,  Dallas,  what  did  bring  about  this 
change  ?  " 

6i  I  feel  a  delicacy  in  mentioning  how  it  came  about  to  you, 
Mr.  L.,  as  there  undoubtedly  wras  a  great  deal  of '  interference 
with  other  men's  matters'  in  the  business.  In  short,  the 
young  man  fell  in  the  way  of  one  of  those  meddlesome  fellows, 
who  go  prowling  about,  distributing  tracts,  forming  temper- 
ance societies,  and  all  that  sort  of  stuff." 

"  Come,  come,  Dallas,"  said  Mr.  L.,  smiling,  "  I  must  hear 
the  story,  for  all  that." 

"  First  call  with  me  at  this  house,"  said  Dallas,  stopping 
before  the  door  of  a  neat  little  mansion.  They  were  soon  in 
the  parlor.  The  first  sight  that  met  their  eyes  was  Edward 
Howard,  who,  with  a  cheek  glowing  with  exercise,  was  tossing 
aloft  a  blooming  boy,  while  Augusta  was  watching  his  motion?, 
her  face  radiant  with  smiles. 

"  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Howard,  this  is  Mr.  L.,  an  old  acquaint- 
ance, I  believe." 

There  was  a  moment  of  mutual  embarrassment  and  sur- 
prise, soon  dispelled,  however,  by  the  frank  cordiality  of 
Edward.  Mr.  L.  sat  down,  but  could  scarce  withdraw  his 
eyes  from  the  countenance  of  Augusta,  in  whose  eloquent 
16 


182  LET    EVERY    MAN    MIND    HIS    OWN    BUSINESS. 

face  he  recognized  a  beauty  of  a  higher  cast  than  even  in  her 
earlier  clays. 

He  glanced  about  the  apartment.  It  was  simply  but  taste- 
fully furnished,  and  wore  an  air  of  retired,  domestic  comfort. 
There  were  books,  engravings,  and  musical  instruments. 
Above  all,  there  were  four  happy,  healthy-looking  children, 
pursuing  studies  or  sports  at  the  farther  end  of  the  room. 

After  a  short  call  they  regained  the  street. 

"  Dallas,  you  are  a  happy  man,"  said  Mr.  L. ;  "  that  family 
will  be  a  mine  of  jewels  to  you." 

He  was  right.  Every  soul  saved  from  pollution  and  ruin 
is  a  jewel  to  him  that  reclaims  it,  whose  lustre  only  eternity 
can  disclose ;  and  therefore  it  is  written,  "  They  that  be  wise 
shall  shine  as  the  brightness  of  the  firmament,  and  they  that 
turn  many  to  righteousness,  as  the  stars  forever  and  ever." 


COUSIN    WILLIAM. 


In  a  stately  red  bouse,  in  one  of  the  villages  of  New  Eng- 
land, lived  the  heroine  of  our  story.  She  had  every  advan- 
tage of  rank  and  wealth,  for  her  father  was  a  deacon  of  the 
church,  and  owned  sheep,  and  oxen,  and  exceeding  much  sub- 
stance. There  was  an  appearance  of  respectability  and  opulence 
about  all  the  demesnes.  The  house  stood  almost  concealed  amid 
a  forest  of  apple  trees,  in  spring  blushing  with  blossoms,  and 
in  autumn  golden  with  fruit.  And  near  by  might  be  seen  the 
garden,  surrounded  by  a  red  picket  fence,  enclosing  all  sorts 
of  magnificence.  There,  in  autumn,  might  be  seen  abundant 
squash  vines,  which  seemed  puzzled  for  room  where  to  bestow 
themselves ;  and  bright  golden  squashes,  and  full-orbed  yel- 
low pumpkins,  looking  as  satisfied  as  the  evening  sun  when 
he  has  just  had  his  face  washed  in  a  shower,  and  is  sinking 
soberly  to  bed.  There  were  superannuated  seed  cucumbers, 
enjoying  the  pleasures  of  a  contemplative  old  age ;  and  In- 
dian corn,  nicely  done  up  in  green  silk,  with  a  specimen  tassel 
hanging  at  the  end  of  each  ear.  The  beams  of  the  summer 
sun  darted  through  rows  of  crimson  currants,  abounding  on 
bushes  by  the  fence,  while  a  sulky  black  currant  bush  sat 
scowling  in  one  corner,  a  sort  of  garden  curiosity. 

(183; 


184  COUSIN    WILLIAM. 

But  time  would  fail  us  wore  we  to  enumerate  all  the  wealth 
of  Deacon  Israel  Taylor.  He  himself  belonged  to  that  neces- 
sary class  of  beings,  who,  though  remarkable  for  nothing  at 
all,  are  very  useful  in  filling  up  the  links  of  society.  Far 
otherwise  was  his  sister-in-law,  Mrs.  Abigail  Evetts,  who,  on 
the  demise  of  the  deacon's  wife,  had  assumed  the  reins  of  gov- 
ernment in  the  household. 

This  lady  was  of  the  same  opinion  that  has  animated  many 
illustrious  philosophers,  namely,  that  the  affairs  of  this  world 
need  a  great  deal  of  seeing  to  in  order  to  have  them  go  on 
prosperously ;  and  although  she  did  not,  like  them,  engage  in 
the  supervision  of  the  universe,  she  made  amends  by  unre- 
mitting diligence  in  the  department  under  her  care.  In  her 
mind  there  was  an  evident  necessity  that  every  one  should  be 
up  and  doing :  Monday,  because  it  was  washing  day ;  Tuesday, 
because  it  was  ironing  day ;  Wednesday,  because  it  was  bak- 
ing day ;  Thursday,  because  to-morrow  was  Friday ;  and  so 
on  to  the  end  of  the  week.  Then  she  had  the  care  of  remind- 
ing all  in  the  house  of  every  thing  each  was  to  do  from  week's 
end  to  week's  end ;  and  she  was  so  faithful  in  this  respect,  that 
scarcely  an  original  act  of  volition  took  place  in  the  family. 
The  poor  deacon  was  reminded  when  he  went  out  and  when 
he  came  in,  when  he  sat  down  and  when  he  rose  up,  so  that 
an  act  of  omission  could  only  have  been  committed  through 
sheer  malice  prepense. 

But  the  supervision  of  a  whole  family  of  children  afforded 
to  a  lady  of  her  active  turn  of  mind  more  abundant  matter  of 
exertion.  To  see  that  their  faces  were  washed,  their  clothes 
mended,  and  their  catechism  learned  ;  to  see  that  they  did  not 
pick  the  flowers,  nor  throw  stone.-  at  the  chickens,  nor  sophis- 
ticate the  great  house  dog,  was  an  accumulation  of  care  that 


COUSIN    WILLIAM.  185 

devolved  almost  entirely  on  Mrs.  Abigail,  so  that,  by  her  own 
account,  she  lived  and  throve  by  a  perpetual  miracle. 

The  eldest  of  her  charge,  at  the  time  this  story  begins,  was 
a  girl  just  arrived  at  young  ladyhood,  and  her  name  was  Mary. 
Now  we  know  that  people  very  seldom  have  stories  written 
about  them  who  have  not  sylph-like  forms,  and  glorious  eyes, 
or,  at  least,  "  a  certain  inexpressible  charm  diffused  over  their 
whole  person."  But  stories  have  of  late  so  much  abounded 
that  they  actually  seem  to  have  used  up  all  the  eyes,  hair, 
teeth,  lips,  and  forms  necessary  for  a  heroine,  so  that  no  one 
can  now  pretend  to  find  an  original  collection  wherewith  to 
set  one  forth.  These  things  considered,  I  regard  it  as  for- 
tunate that  my  heroine  was  not  a  beauty.  She  looked  neither 
like  a  sylph,  nor  an  oread,  nor  a  fairy ;  she  had  neither  Vair 
distingue  nor  Vair  magnijique,  but  bore  a  great  resemblance 
to  a  real  mortal  girl,  such  as  you  might  pass  a  dozen  of  with- 
out any  particular  comment  —  one  of  those  appearances,  which, 
though  common  as  water,  may,  like  that,  be  colored  any  way 
by  the  associations  you  connect  with  it.  Accordingly,  a  fault- 
less taste  in  dress*,  a  perfect  ease  and  gayety  of  manner,  a  con- 
stant flow  of  kindly  feeling,  seemed  in  her  case  to  produce  all 
the  effect  of  beauty.  Her  manners  had  just  dignity  enough 
to  repel  impertinence  without  destroying  the  careless  freedom 
and  sprightliness  in  which  she  commonly  indulged.  No  per- 
son had  a  merrier  run  of  stories,  songs,  and  village  traditions, 
and  all  those  odds  and  ends  of  character  which  form  the  ma- 
terials for  animated  conversation.  She  had  read,  too,  every 
thing  she  could  find:  Rollin's  History,  and  Scott's  Family 
Bible,  that  stood  in  the  glass  bookcase  in  the  best  room,  and 
an  odd  volume  of  Shakspeare,  and  now  and  then  one  of  Scott's 
novels,  borrowed  from  a  somewhat  literary  family  in  the 
10* 


186  COUSIN    WILLIAM. 

neighborhood.  She  also  kept  an  album  to  write  her  thoughts 
in,  and  was  in  a  constant  habit  of  cutting  out  all  the  pretty 
poetry  from  the  corners  of  the  newspapers,  besides  drying 
forget-me-nots  and  rosebuds,  in  memory  of  different  par- 
ticular friends,  with  a  number  of  other  little  sentiment- 
al practices  to  which  young  ladies  of  sixteen  and  thereabout 
are  addicted.  She  was  also  endowed  with  great  constructive- 
ness  ;  so  that,  in  these  days  of  ladies'  fairs,  there  was  nothing 
from  bellows-needlebooks  down  to  web-footed  pincushions  to 
which  she  could  not  turn  her  hand.  Her  sewing  certainly 
was  extraordinary,  (we  think  too  little  is  made  of  this  in  the 
accomplishments  of  heroines  ;)  her  stitching  was  like  rows  of 
pearls,  and  her  cross-stitching  was  fairy-like  ;  and  for  sewing 
over  and  over,  as  the  village  schoolma'am  hath  it,  she  had  not 
her  equal.  And  what  shall  we  say  of  her  pies  and  puddings  ? 
They  would  have  converted  the  most  reprobate  old  bachelor 
in  the  world.  And  then  her  sweeping  and  dusting !  "  Many 
daughters  have  clone  virtuously,  but  thou  excellest  them  all  !  " 
And  now,  what  do  you  suppose  is  coming  next  ?  Why,  a 
young  gentleman,  of  course;  for  about  this  time  comes  to 
settle  in  the  village,  and  take  charge  of  the  academy,  a  certain 
William  Barton.  Now,  if  you  wrish  to  know  more  particular- 
ly who  he  was,  we  only  wish  we  could  refer  you  to  Mrs.  Abi- 
gail, who  was  most  accomplished  in  genealogies  and  old  wifes' 
fables,  and  she  would  have  told  you  that  "  her  gran'ther,  Ike 
Evetts,  married  a  wife  who  was  second  cousin  to  Peter  Scran- 
ton,  who  was  groat  uncle  to  Polly  Mosely,  whose  daughter 
.Mary  married  William  Barton's  father,  just  about  the  time  old 
'Squire  Peter's  house  was  burned  down."  And  then  would 
follow  an  account  of  the  domestic  history  of  all  branches  of 
the  family  since  they  came  over  from  England.      Be  that  as  it 


COUSIN    WILLIAM.  187 

may,  it  is  certain  that  Mrs.  Abigail  denominated  him  cousin, 
and  that  he  came  to  the  deacon's  to  board ;  and  he  had  not 
been  there  more  than  a  week,  and  made  sundry  observations 
on  Miss  Mary,  before  he  determined  to  call  her  cousin  too, 
which  he  accomplished  in  the  most  natural  way  in  the 
world. 

Mary  was  at  first  somewhat  afraid  of  him,  because  she  had 
heard  that  he  had  studied  through  all  that  was  to  be  studied 
in  Greek,  and  Latin,  and  German  too  ;  and  she  saw  a  library 
of  books  in  his  room,  that  made  her  sigh  every  time  she 
looked  at  them,  to  think  how  much  there  was  to  be  learned  of 
which  she  was  ignorant.  But  all  this  wore  away,  and  pres- 
ently  they  were  the  best  friends  in  the  world.  He  gave  her 
books  to  read,  and  he  gave  her  lessons  in  French,  nothing  puz- 
zled by  that  troublesome  verb  which  must  be  first  conjugated, 
whether  in  French,  Latin,  or  English.  Then  he  gave  her  a 
deal  of  good  advice  about  the  cultivation  of  her  mind  and  the 
formation  of  her  character,  all  of  which  was  very  improving, 
and  tended  greatly  to  consolidate  their  friendship.  But,  un- 
fortunately for  Mary,  William  made  quite  as  favorable  an  im- 
pression on  the  female  community  generally  as  he  did  on  her, 
having  distinguished  himself  on  certain  public  occasions,  such 
as  delivering  lectures  on  botany,  and  also,  at  the  earnest  re- 
quest of  the  fourth  of  July  committee,  pronounced  an  oration 
which  covered  him  with  glory.  He  had  been  known,  also,  to 
write  poetry,  and  had  a  retired  and  romantic  air  greatly  bewitch- 
ing to  those  who  read  Bulwer's  novels.  In  short,  it  was  mor- 
ally certain,  according  to  all  rules  of  evidence,  that  if  he  had 
chosen  to  pay  any  lady  of  the  village  a  dozen  visits  a  week, 
she  would  have  considered  it  as  her  duty  to  entertain  him. 

William  did  visit  ;  for,  like  many  studious  people,  he  found 


188  COUSIN    WILLIAM. 

a  need  for  the  excitement  of  society  ;  but,  whether  it  was 
party  or  singing  school,  he  walked  home  with  Mary,  of  course, 
in  as  steady  and  domestic  a  manner  as  any  man  who  has  been 
married  a  twelvemonth.  His  air  in  conversing  with  her  was 
inevitably  more  confidential  than  with  any  other  one,  and  this 
was  cause  for  envy  in  many  a  gentle  breast,  and  an  interesting 
diversity  of  reports  with  regard  to  her  manner  of  treating  the 
young  gentleman  went  forth  into  the  village. 

"  I  wonder  Mary  Taylor  will  laugh  and  joke  so  much  with 
William  Barton  in  company,"  said  one.  "  Her  manners  are 
altogether  too  free,"  said  another.  "  It  is  evident  she  has  de- 
signs  upon  him,"  remarked  a  third.  "  And  she  cannot  even 
conceal  it,"  pursued  a  fourth. 

Some  sayings  of  this  kind  at  length  reached  the  ears  of 
Mrs.  Abigail,  who  had  the  best  heart  in  the  world,  and  was  so 
indignant  that  it  might  have  done  your  heart  good  to  see 
her.  Still  she  thought  it  showed  that  "the  girl  needed 
advising  ;  "  and  "  she  should  talk  to  Mary  about  the  matter." 

But  she  first  concluded  to  advise  with  William  on  the  sub- 
ject;  and,  therefore,  after  dinner  the  same  day,  while  he  was 
looking  over  a  treatise  on  trigonometry  or  conic  sections,  she 
commenced  upon  him  :  — 

"  Our  Mary  is  growing  up  a  fine  girl." 

William  was  intent  on  solving  a  problem,  and  only  under- 
standing that  something  had  been  said,  mechanically  answered, 
"  Yes." 

"  A  little  wild  or  so,"  said  Mrs.  Abigail. 

"  I  know  it."  said  William,  fixing  his  eyes  earnestly  on  E, 
F,  B,  C. 

•  Perhaps  you  think  her  a  little  too  talkative  and  free  with 
you  sometimes  ;  you  know  girls  do  not  always  think  what 
they  do." 


COUSIN    WILLIAM.  189 

"  Certainly,"  said  William,  going  on  with  his  problem. 

"  I  think  you  had  better  speak  to  her  about  it,"  said  Mrs. 
Abigail. 

"I  think  so  too,"  said  William,  musing  over  his  completed 
work,  till  at  length  he  arose,  put  it  in  his  pocket,  and  went  to 
school. 

0,  this  unlucky  concentrativeness  !  How  many  shocking 
things  a  man  may  indorse  by  the  simple  habit  of  saying 
"  Yes "  and  "  No,"  when  he  is  not  hearing  what  is  said  to 
him. 

The  next  morning,  when  William  was  gone  to  the  academy, 
and  Mary  was  washing  the  breakfast  things,  Aunt  Abigail  in- 
troduced the  subject  with  great  tact  and  delicacy  by  remark- 
ing* — 

"  Mary,  I  guess  you  had  better  be  rather  less  free  with 
William  than  you  have  been." 

"  Free  !  "  said  Mary,  starting,  and  nearly  dropping  the  cup 
from  her  hand  ;  "  why,  aunt,  what  do  you  mean  ?  " 

"  Why,  Mary,  you  must  not  always  be  around  so  free  in 
talking  with  him,  at  home,  and  in  company,  and  every  where. 
It  won't  do."  The  color  started  into  Mary's  cheek,  and 
mounted  even  to  her  forehead,  as  she  answered  with  a  digni- 
fied air,  — 

"  I  have  not  been  too  free  ;  I  know  what  is  right  and  prop- 
er ;  I  have  not  been  doing  any  thing  that  was  improper." 

Now,  when  one  is  going  to  give  advice,  it  is  very  trouble- 
some to  have  its  necessity  thus  called  in  question  ;  and  Mrs. 
Abigail,  who  was  fond  of  her  own  opinion,  felt  called  upon  to 
defend  it. 

"  Why,  yes,  you  have,  Mary ;  every  body  in  the  village 
notices  it." 


100  COUSIN    WILLIAM. 

"  I  don't  care  what  every  bod)'  in  the  village  says.  I  shall 
always  do  what  I  think  proper,"  retorted  the  young  lady;  "  I 
know  Cousin  William  does  not  think  so." 

il  Well,  /think  he  does,  from  some  things  I  have  heard  him 
say." 

"O  aunt!  what  have  you  heard  him  say  ?"  said  Mary, 
nearly  upsetting  a  chair  in  the  eagerness  with  which  she 
turned  to  her  aunt. 

•'  Mercy  on  us  !  you  need  not  knock  the  house  down,  Mary. 
I  don't  remember  exactly  about  it,  only  that  his  way  of  speak- 
ing made  me  think  so." 

"  0  aunt !  do  tell  me  what  it  was,  and  all  about  it,"  said 
Mary,  following  her  aunt,  who  went  around  dusting  the  furni- 
ture. 

Mrs.  Abigail,  like  most  obstinate  £>eople,  who  feel  that  they 
have  gone  too  far,  and  yet  are  ashamed  to  go  back,  took  ref- 
uge in  an  obstinate  generalization,  and  only  asserted  that  she 
had  heard  him  say  things,  as  if  he  did  not  quite  like  her 
ways. 

This  is  the  most  consoling  of  all  methods  in  which  to  leave 
a  matter  of  this  kind  for  a  person  of  active  imagination.  Of 
course,  in  five  minutes,  Mary  had  settled  in  her  mind  a  list 
of  remarks  that  would  have  been  suited  to  any  of  her  village 
companions,  as  coming  from  her  cousin.  All  the  improbabili- 
ty of  the  thing  vanished  in  the  absorbing  consideration  of  its 
possibility  ;  and,  after  a  moment's  reflection,  she  pressed  her 
lips  together  in  a  very  firm  way,  and  remarked  that  "  Mr. 
Barton  would  have  no  occasion  to  say  such  things  again." 

Itwas  very  evident,  from  her  heightened  color  and  dignified 
air,  that  her  state  of  mind  was  very  heroical.  As  for  poor 
Aunt  Abigail,  -he  fell  sorry  she  had  vexed  her,  and  addressed 


COUSIN    WILLIAM.  191 

herself  most  earnestly  to  her  consolation,  remarking,  "  Mary, 
I  don't  suppose  William  meant  any  thing.  He  knows  you 
don't  mean  any  thing  wrong." 

"  Don't  mean  any  thing  wrong  ! "  said  Mary,  indignantly. 

"  Why,  child,  he  thinks*  you  don't  know  much  about  folks 
and  things,  and  if  you  have  been  a  little " 

"  But  I  have  not  been.  It  was  he  that  talked  with  me  first. 
It  was  he  that  did  every  thing  first.  He  called  me  cousin  — 
and  he  is  my  cousin." 

"  No,  child,  you  are  mistaken  ;  for  you  remember  his  grand- 
father was " 

"  I  don't  care  who  his  grandfather  was ;  he  has  no  right  to 
think  of  me  as  he  does." 

"  Now,  Mary,  don't  go  to  quarrelling  with  him ;  he  can't 
help  his  thoughts,  you  know." 

"  I  don't  care  what  he  thinks,"  said  Mary,  flinging  out  of 
the  room  with  tears  in  her  eyes. 

Now,  when  a  young  lady  is  in  such  a  state  of  affliction,  the 
first  thing  to  be  done  is  to  sit  down  and  cry  for  two  hours  or 
more,  which  Mary  accomplished  in  the  most  thorough  man- 
ner ;  in  the  mean  while  making  many  reflections  on  the  insta- 
bility of  human  friendships,  and  resolving  never  to  trust  any 
one  again  as  long  as  she  lived,  and  thinking  that  this  was  a 
cold  and  hollow-hearted  world,  together  with  many  other 
things  she  had  read  in  books,  but  never  realized  so  forcibly  as 
at  present.  But  what  was  to  be  done  ?  Of  course  she  did 
not  wish  to  speak  a  word  to  William  again,  and  wished  he  did 
not  board  there ;  and  finally  she  put  on  her  bonnet,  and  deter- 
mined to  go  over  to  her  other  aunt's  in  the  neighborhood,  and 
spend  the  day.  so  that  she  might  not  see  him  at  dinner. 

But  it  so  happened  that  Mr.  William,  on  coming  home  at 


192  COUSIN    WILLIAM. 

noon,  found  himself  unaccountably  lonesome  during  school 
recess  for  dinner,  and  hearing  where  Mary  was,  determined  to 
call  after  school  at  night  at  her  aunt's,  and  attend  her  home. 

Accordingly,  in  the  afternoon,  as  Mary  was  sitting  in  the 
parlor  with  two  or  three  cousins,  Mr.  William  entered. 

Mary  was  so  anxious  to  look  just  as  if  nothing  was  the 
matter,  that  she  turned  away  her  head,  and  began  to  look  out 
of  the  window  just  as  the  young  gentleman  came  up  to  speak 
to  her.  So,  after  he  had  twice  inquired  after  her  health,  she 
drew  up  very  coolly,  and  said, — ■ 

"  Did  you  speak  to  me,  sir  ?  " 

William  looked  a  little  surprised  at  first,  but  seating  himself 
by  her,  "  To  be  sure,"  said  he  ;  "  and  I  came  to  know  why  you 
ran  away  without  leaving  any  message  for  me  ?  " 

"  It  did  not  occur  to  me,"  said  Mary,  in  the  dry  tone  which, 
in  a  lady,  means,  "  I  will  excuse  you  from  any  further  conver- 
sation, if  you  please."  William  felt  as  if  there  was  something 
dill',  rent  from  common  in  all  this,  but  thought  that  perhaps  he 
was  mistaken,  and  so  continued  :  — 

•■  What  a  pity,  now,  that  you  should  be  so  careless  of  me, 
when  I  was  so  thoughtful  of  you  !  I  have  come  all  this  dis- 
tance to  see  how  you  do." 

"  I  am  sorry  to  have  given  you  the  trouble,"  said  Mary. 

"  Cousin,  are  you  unwell  to-day  ?  "  said  William. 

"  No,  sir,"  said  Mary,  going  on  with  her  sewing. 

There  was  something  so  marked  and  decisive  in  all  this, 
tli.it  William  could  scarcely  believe  his  ears.  He  turned  away, 
and  commenced  a  conversation  with  a  young  lady  ;  and  Mary, 
to  show  that  she  could  talk  if  she  chose,  commenced  relating 
a  story  to  her  cousins,  and  presently  they  were  all  in  a  loud 
lau";h. 


COUSIN    WILLIAM.  193 

"  Mary  has  been  full  of  her  knickknacks  to-day,"  said  her 
old  uncle,  joining  them. 

William  looked  at  her :  she  never  seemed  brighter  or  in 
better  spirits,  and  he  began  to  think  that  even  Cousin  Mary 
might  puzzle  a  man  sometimes. 

He  turned  away,  and  began  a  conversation  with  old  Mr. 
Zachary  Coan  on  the  raising  of  buckwheat  —  a  subject  which 
evidently  required  profound  thought,  for  he  never  looked  more 
grave,  not  to  say  melancholy. 

Mary  glanced  that  way,  and  was  struck  with  the  -sad  and 
almost  severe  expression  with  which  he  was  listening  to  the 
details  of  Mr.  Zachary,  and  was  convinced  that  he  was  no 
more  thinking  of  buckwheat  than  she  was. 

"  I  never  thought  of  hurting  his  feelings  so  much,"  said  she, 
relenting  ;  "  after  all,  he  has  been  very  kind  to  me.  But  he 
might  have  told  me  about  it,  and  not  somebody  else."  And 
hereupon  she  cast  another  glance  towards  him. 

William  was  not  talking,  but  sat  with  his  eyes  fixed  on  the 
snuffer-tray,  with  an  intense  gravity  of  gaze  that  quite  troubled 
her,  and  she  could  not  help  again  blaming  herself. 

"  To  be  sure !  Aunt  was  right ;  he  could  not  help  his 
thoughts.     I  will  try  to  forget  it,"  thought  she. 

Now,  you  must  not  think  Mary  was  sitting  still  and  gazing 
during  this  soliloquy.  No,  she  was  talking  and  laughing,  ap- 
parently the  most  unconcerned  spectator  in  the  room.  So 
passed  the  evening  till  the  little  company  broke  up. 

"  I  am  ready  to  attend  you  home,"  said  William,  in  a  tone 
of  cold  and  almost  haughty  deference. 

"  I  am  obliged  to  you,"  said  the  young  lady,  in  a  similar 
tone,  "  but  I  shall  stay  all  night ;  "  then,  suddenly  changing 
17 


194  COLSIN    WILLIAM. 

her  tone,  she  said,  "  No,  I  cannot  keep  it  up  any  longer.  I 
will  £0  home  with  you.  Cousin  William." 

"  Keep  up  what  ?  "  said  William,  with  surprise. 

Mary  was  gone  for  her  bonnet.  She  came  out,  took  his 
arm,  and  walked  on  a  little  way. 

"  You  have  advised  me  always  to  be  frank,  cousin,"  said 
Mary,  -  and  I  must  and  will  be  ;  so  I  shall  tell  you  all,  though 
I  dare  say  it  is  not  according  to  rule." 

"  All  what  ?  "  said  William. 

"  Cousin,"  said  she,  not  at  all  regarding  what  he  said,  "  I 
was  very  much  vexed  this  afternoon." 

"  So  I  perceived,  Mary." 

"  Well,  it  is  vexatious,"  she  continued,  "  though,  after  all, 
we  cannot  expect  people  to  think  us  perfect ;  but  I  did  not 
think  it  quite  fair  in  you  not  to  tell  me" 

"  Tell  you  what,  Mary  ?  " 

Here  they  came  to  a  place  where  the  road  turned  through 
a  small  patch  of  woods.  It  wras  green  and  shady,  and  en- 
livened by  a  lively  chatterbox  of  a  brook.  There  was  a 
mossy  trunk  of  a  tree  that  had  fallen  beside  it,  and  made  a 
pretty  seat.  The  moonlight  lay  in  little  patches  upon  it,  as  it 
streamed  down  through  the  branches  of  the  trees.  It  was  a 
fairy -looking  place,  and  Mary  stopped  and  sat  down,  as  if  to 
collect  her  thoughts.  After  picking  up  a  stick,  and  playing  a 
moment  in  the  water,  she  began  :  — 

"After  all,  cousin,  it  was  very  natural  in  you  to  say  so, 
if  you  thought  so ;  though  I  should  not  have  supposed  you 
would  think  so." 

"  Well,  I  should  be  glad  if  I  could  know  what  it  is,"  said 
William,  in  a  tone  of  patient  resignation. 


COUSIN    WILLIAM.  105 

"  0,  I  forgot  that  I  had  not  told  you,"  said  she,  pushing 
back  her  hat,  and  speaking  like  one  determined  to  go  through 
with  the  thing.  "  Why,  cousin,  I  have  been  told  that  you 
spoke  of  my  manners  towards  yourself  as  being  freer  —  more 
—  obtrusive  than  they  should  be.  And  now,"  said  she,  her 
eyes  flashing,  "  you  see  it  was  not  a  very  easy  thing  to  tell 
you,  but  I  began  with  being  frank,  and  I  will  be  so,  for  the 
sake  of  satisfying  myself" 

To  this  William  simply  replied,  "  Who  told  you  this, 
Mary  ?  " 

"  My  aunt." 

"  Did  she  say  I  said  it  to  her  ?  " 

"  Yes ;  and  I  do  not  so  much  object  to  your  saying  it  as  to 
your  thinking  it,  for  you  know  I  did  not  force  myself  on  your 
notice  ;  it  was  you  who  sought  my  acquaintance  and  won  my 
confidence  ;  and  that  you,  above  all  others,  should  think  of  me 
in  this  way  !  " 

"  I  never  did  think  so,  Mary,"  said  William,  quietly. 

"  Nor  ever  said  so  ?  " 

u  Never.  I  should  think  you  might  have  known  it, 
Mary." 

"  But "  said  Mary. 

"  But,"  said  William,  firmly,  "  Aunt  Abigail  is  certainly 
mistaken." 

"  Well,  I  am  glad  of  it,"  said  Mary,  looking  relieved,  and 
gazing  in  the  brook.  Then  looking  up  with  warmth,  "  and, 
cousin,  you  never  must  think  so.  I  am  ardent,  and  I  express 
myself  freely ;  but  I  never  meant,  I  am  sure  I  never  should 
mean,  any  thing  more  than  a  sister  might  say.*' 

"  And  are  you  sure  you  never  could,  if  all  my  happiness 
depended  on  it,  Mary  ?  " 


190  COUSIN    WILLIAM. 

She  turned  and  looked  up  in  his  faee,  and  saw  a  look  that 
brought  conviction.  She  rose  to  go  on,  and  her  hand  was 
taken  and  drawn  into  the  arm  of  her  cousin,  and  that  was  the 
end  of  the  first  and  the  last  difficulty  that  ever  arose  between 
them. 


THE  MINISTRATION  OF  OUR  DEPARTED 
FRIENDS. 

A  NEW  YEAR'S    RE  VERY. 


u  It  is  a  beautiful  belief, 

That  ever  round  our  head 
Are  hovering  on  viewless  wings 
The  spirits  of  the  dead." 

While  every  year  is  taking  one  and  another  from  the 
ranks  of  life  and  usefulness,  or  the  charmed  circle  of  friend- 
ship and  love,  it  is  soothing  to  remember  that  the  spiritual 
world  is  gaining  in  riches  through  the  poverty  of  this. 

In  early  life,  with  our  friends  all  around  us,  —  hearing 
their  voices,  cheered  by  their  smiles,  —  death  and  the  spiritual 
world  are  to  us  remote,  misty,  and  half-fabulous ;  but  as  we 
advance  in  our  journey,  and  voice  after  voice  is  hushed,  and 
form  after  form  vanishes  from  our  side,  and  our  shadow  falls 
almost  solitary  on  the  hillside  of  life,  the  soul,  by  a  necessity 
of  its  being,  tends  to  the  unseen  and  spiritual,  and  pursues  in 
another  life  those  it  seeks  in  vain  in  this. 

For  with  every  friend  that  dies,  dies  also  some  especial 
form  of  social  enjoyment,  whose  being  depended  on  the  pecu- 
17  *  (197^ 


108  THE    MINISTRATION    OF    DEPARTED    FRIENDS. 

liar  character  of  that  friend  ;  till,  late  in  the  afternoon  of  life, 
the  pilgrim  seems  to  himself  to  have  passed  over  to  the  un- 
seen world  in  successive  portions  half  his  own  spirit;  and 
poor  indeed  is  he  who  has  not  familiarized  himself  with 
that  unknown,  whither,  despite  himself,  his  soul  is  earnestly 
tending. 

One  of  the  deepest  and  most  imperative  cravings  of  the 
human  heart,  as  it  follows  its  beloved  ones  beyond  the  veil, 
is  for  some  assurance  that  they  still  love  and  care  for  us. 
Could  we  firmly  believe  this,  bereavement  would  lose  half  its 
bitterness.  As  a  German  writer  beautifully  expresses  it, 
"  Our  friend  is  not  wholly  gone  from  us ;  we  see  across  the 
river  of  death,  in  the  blue  distance,  the  smoke  of  his  cot- 
tage ; "  hence  the  heart,  always  creating  what  it  desires,  has 
ever  made  the  guardianship  and  ministration  of  departed 
spirits  a  favorite  theme  of  poetic  fiction. 

But  is  it,  then,  fiction  ?  Does  revelation,  which  gives  so 
many  hopes  which  nature  had  not,  give  none  here  ?  Is  there 
no  sober  certainty  to  correspond  to  the  inborn  and  passionate 
craving  of  the  soul  ?  Do  departed  spirits  in  verity  retain  any 
knowledge  of  what  transpires  in  this  world,  and  take  any  part 
in  its  scenes  ?  All  that  revelation  says  of  a  spiritual  state  is 
more  intimation  than  assertion ;  it  has  no  distinct  treatise,  and 
teaches  nothing  apparently  of  set  purpose ;  but  gives  vague, 
glorious  images,  while  now  and  then  some  accidental  ray  of 
intelligence  looks  out, — 


like  eyes  of  cherubs  shining 


From  out  the  veil  that  hid  the  ark.' 


But  out  of  all  the  different  hints  and  assertions  of  the  Bible 
we  think  a  better  inferential  argument  might  be  constructed 


THE    MINISTRATION    OF    DEPARTED    FRIENDS.  199 

to  prove  the  ministration  of  departed  spirits  than  for  many  a 
doctrine  which  has  passed  in  its  day  for  the  height  of  ortho- 
doxy. 

First,  then,,  the  Bible  distinctly  says  that  there  is  a  class  of 
invisible  spirits  who  minister  to  the  children  of  men  :  "  Are 
they  not  all  ministering  spirits,  sent  forth  to  minister  to  those 
who  shall  be  heirs  of  salvation  ?  "  It  is  said  of  little  children, 
that  "  their  angels  do  always  behold  the  face  of  our  Father 
which  is  in  heaven."  This  last  passage,  from  the  words  of 
our  Savior,  taken  in  connection  with  the  well-known  tradition 
of  his  time,  fully  recognizes  the  idea  of  individual  guardian 
spirits ;  for  God's  government  over  mind  is,  it  seems,  through- 
out, one  of  intermediate  agencies,  and  these  not  chosen  at  ran- 
dom, but  with  the  nicest  reference  to  their  adaptation  to  the 
purpose  intended.  Not  even  the  All-seeing,  All-knowing  One 
was  deemed  perfectly  adapted  to  become  a  human  Savior  with- 
out a  human  experience.  Knowledge  intuitive,  gained  from 
above,  of  human  wants  and  woes  was  not  enough  —  to  it 
must  be  added  the  home-born  certainty  of  consciousness  and 
memory ;  the  Head  of  all  mediation  must  become  human.  Is 
it  likely,  then,  that,  in  selecting  subordinate  agencies,  this  so 
necessary  a  requisite  of  a  human  life  and  experience  is  over- 
looked ?  While  around  the  throne  of  God  stand  spirits,  now 
sainted  and  glorified,  yet  thrillingly  conscious  of  a  past  ex- 
perience of  sin  and  sorrow,  and  trembling  in  sympathy 
with  temptations  and  struggles  like  their  own,  is  it  likely 
that  he  would  pass  by  these  souls,  thus  burning  for  the 
work,  and  commit  it  to  those  bright  abstract  beings  whose 
knowledge  and  experience  are  comparatively  so  distant  and 
so  cold  ? 

It  is  strongly  in  confirmation  of  this  idea,  that  in  the  trans- 


200  THE    MINISTRATION    OF    DEPARTED    FRIENDS. 

figuration  scene  —  which  seems  to  have  been  intended  pur- 
posely to  give  the  disciples  a  glimpse  of  the  glorified  state  of 
their  Master  —  we  find  him  attended  by  two  spirits  of  earth, 
Moses  and  Elias,  "  which  appeared  with  him  in  glory,  and 
spake  of  his  death  which  he  should  accomplish  at  Jerusalem." 
It  appears  that  these  so  long  departed  ones  were  still  mingling 
in  deep  sympathy  with  the  tide  of  human  affairs  —  not  only 
aware  of  the  present,  but  also  informed  as  to  the  future.  In 
coincidence  with  this  idea  are  all  those  passages  which  speak 
of  the  redeemed  of  earth  as  being  closely  and  indissolubly 
identified  with  Christ,  members  of  his  body,  of  his  flesh  and 
his  bones.  It  is  not  to  be  supposed  that  those  united  to  Jesus 
above  all  others  by  so  vivid  a  sympathy  and  community  of  in- 
terests are  left  out  as  instruments  in  that  great  work  of  human 
regeneration  which  so  engrosses  him ;  and  when  we  hear 
Christians  spoken  of  as  kings  and  priests  unto  God,  as  those 
who  shall  judge  angels,  we  see  it  more  than  intimated  that 
they  are  to  be  the  partners  and  actors  in  that  great  work  of 
spiritual  regeneration  of  which  Jesus  is  the  head. 

What  then  ?  May  we  look  among  the  band  of  ministering 
spirits  for  our  own  departed  ones  ?  Whom  would  God  be 
more  likely  to  send  us  ?  Have  we  in  heaven  a  friend  who 
knew  us  to  the  heart's  core  ?  a  friend  to  whom  we  have  un- 
folded our  soul  in  its  most  secret  recesses  ?  to  whom  we  have 
confessed  our  weaknesses  and  deplored  our  griefs  ?  If  we 
are  to  have  a  ministering  spirit,  who  better  adapted  ?  Have 
we  not  memories  which  correspond  to  such  a  belief?  When 
our  soul  has  been  cast  down,  has  never  an  invisible  voice  whis- 
pered, "There  is  lifting  up"?  Have  not  gales  and  breezes 
of  sweet  and  healing  thought  been  wafted  over  us,  as  if  an 
angel   had    shaken    from    his   wings    the    odors  of  paradise? 


THE    MINISTRATION    OF    DEPARTED    FRIENDS.  201 

Many  a  one,  we  are  confident,  can  remember  such  things  — 
and  whence  come  they?  Why  do  the  children  of  the  pious 
mother,  whose  grave  has  grown  green  and  smooth  with  years, 
seem  often  to  walk  through  perils  and  dangers  fearful  and  im- 
minent as  the  crossing  Mohammed's  fiery  gulf  on  the  edge  of 
a  drawn  sword,  yet  walk  unhurt  ?  Ah !  could  we  see  that 
attendant  form,  that  face  where  the  angel  conceals  not  the 
mother,  our  question  would  be  answered. 

It  may  be  possible  that  a  friend  is  sometimes  taken  because 
the  Divine  One  sees  that  his  ministry  can  act  more  power- 
fully from  the  unseen  wrorld  than  amid  the  infirmities  of  mor- 
tal intercourse.  Here  the  soul,  distracted  and  hemmed  in  by 
human  events  and  by  bodily  infirmities,  often  scarce  knows 
itself,  and  makes  no  impression  on  others  correspondent  to  its 
desires.  The  mother  would  fain  electrify  the  heart  of  her 
child  ;  she  yearns  and  burns  in  vain  to  make  her  soul  effec- 
tive on  its  soul,  and  to  inspire  it  with  a  spiritual  and  holy  life ; 
but  all  her  own  weaknesses,  faults,  and  mortal  cares  cramp 
and  confine  her,  till  death  breaks  all  fetters ;  and  then,  first 
truly  alive,  risen,  purified,  and  at  rest,  she  may  do  calmly, 
sweetly,  and  certainly,  what,  amid  the  tempests  and  toss- 
ings  of  life,  she  labored  for  painfully  and  fitfully.  So, 
also,  to  generous  souls,  who  burn  for  the  good  of  man,  who 
deplore  the  shortness  of  life,  and  the  little  that  is  permit- 
ted to  any  individual  agency  on  earth,  does  this  belief  open 
a  heavenly  field.  Think  not,  father  or  brother,  long  labor- 
ing for  man,  till  thy  sun  stands  on  the  western  mountains, — 
think  not  that  thy  day  in  this  world  is  over.  Perhaps,  like 
Jesus,  thou  hast  lived  a  human  life,  and  gained  a  human 
experience,  to  become,  under  and  like  him,  a  savior  of  thou- 


202  THE    MINISTRATION    OF    DEPARTED    FRIENDS. 

sands  ;  thou  hast  been  through  the  preparation,  but  thy  real 
work  of  good,  thy  full  power  of  doing,  is  yet  to  begin. 

But  again  :  there  are  some  spirits  (and  those  of  earth's 
choicest)  to  whom,  so  far  as  enjoyment  to  themselves  or 
others  is  concerned,  this  life  seems  to  have  been  a  total  fail- 
ure. A  hard  hand  from  the  first,  and  all  the  way  through 
life,  seems  to  have  been  laid  upon  them  ;  they  seem  to  live 
only  to  be  chastened  and  crushed,  and  we  lay  them  in  the 
grave  at  last  in  mournful  silence.  To  such,  what  a  vision  is 
opened  by  this  belief!  This  hard  discipline  has  been  the 
school  and  task-work  by  which  their  soul  has  been  fitted  for 
their  invisible  labors  in  a  future  life  ;  and  when  they  pass  the 
gates  of  the  grave,  their  course  of  benevolent  acting  first  be- 
gins, and  they  find  themselves  delighted  possessors  of  what 
through  many  years  they  have  sighed  for  —  the  power  of 
doing  good.  The  year  just  past,  like  all  other  years,  has 
taken  from  a  thousand  circles  the  sainted,  the  just,  and  the 
beloved ;  there  are  spots  in  a  thousand  graveyards  which 
have  become  this  year  dearer  than  all  the  living  world ; 
but  in  the  loneliness  of  sorrow  how  cheering  to  think  that 
our  lost  ones  are  not  wholly  gone  from  us !  They  still  may 
move  about  in  our  homes,  shedding  around  an  atmosphere 
of  purity  and  peace,  promptings  of  good,  and  reproofs  of  evil. 
We  are  compassed  about  by  a  cloud  of  witnesses,  whose 
hearts  throb  in  sympathy  with  every  effort  and  struggle, 
and  who  thrill  with  joy  at  every  success.  How  should  this 
thought  check  and  rebuke  every  worldly  feeling  and  unwor- 
thy purpose,  and  enshrine  us,  in  the  midst  of  a  forgetful 
and  unspiritual  world,  witli  an  atmosphere  of  heavenly  peace! 
They  have  overcome  —  have  risen  —  are  crowned,  glorified  ; 


THE    MINISTRATION    OF    DEPARTED    FRIENDS.  203 

but  still  they  remain  to  us,  our  assistants,  our  comforters, 
and  in  every  hour  of  darkness  their  voice  speaks  to  us :  "  So 
we  grieved,  so  we  struggled,  so  we  fainted,  so  we  doubted ; 
but  we  have  overcome,  we  have  obtained,  we  have  seen,  we 
have  found  —  and  in  our  victory  behold  the  certainty  of  thy 
own." 


MRS.  A.  AND  MRS.  B.; 

OR,    WHAT    SHE    THINKS    ABOUT    IT. 


Mrs.  A.  and  Mrs.  B.  were  next-door  neighbors  and  in- 
timate friends  —  that  is  to  say,  they  took  tea  with  each  other 
very  often,  and,  in  confidential  strains,  discoursed  of  stockings 
and  pocket  handkerchiefs,  of  puddings  and  carpets,  of  cookery 
and  domestic  economy,  through  all  its  branches. 

"  I  think,  on  the  whole,"  said  Mrs.  A.,  with  an  air  of  pro- 
found reflection,  "  that  gingerbread  is  the  cheapest  and  healthi- 
est cake  one  can  make.  I  make  a  good  deal  of  it,  and  let 
my  children  have  as  much  as  they  want  of  it." 

"  I  used  to  do  so,"  said  Mrs.  B.,  "  but  I  haven't  had  any 
made  these  two  months." 

"  Ah  !     Why  not  ?"  said  Mrs.  A. 

"  Why,  it  is  some  trouble  ;  and  then,  though  it  is  cheap,  it 
is  cheaper  not  to  have  any  ;  and,  on  the  whole,  the  children 
are  quite  as  well  contented  without  it,  and  so  we  are  fallen 
into  the  way* of  not  having  any." 

"  But  one  must  keep  some  kind  of  cake  in  the  house,"  said 
Mrs.  A. 

(204) 


MRS.    A.    AND    MRS.    B.  205 

"  So  I  have  always  heard,  and  thought,  and  practised,"  said 
Mrs.  B. ;  "  but  really  of  late  I  have  questioned  the  need  of  it." 

The  conversation  gradually  digressed  from  this  point  into 
various  intricate  speculations  on  domestic  economy,  and  at 
last  each  lady  went  home  to  put  her  children  to  bed. 

A  fortnight  after,  the  two  ladies  were  again  in  conclave  at 
Mrs.  B.'s  tea  table,  which  was  graced  by  some  unusually  nice 
gingerbread. 

"  I  thought  you  had  given  up  making  gingerbread,"  said 
Mrs.  A. ;  "  you  told  me  so  a  fortnight  ago  at  my  house." 

"  So  I  had,"  said  Mrs.  A. ;  "  but  since  that  conversation  I 
have  been  making  it  again." 

"  Why  so  ?  " 

"  0,  I  thought  that  since  you  thought  it  economical  enough, 
certainly  I  might ;  and  that  if  you  thought  it  necessary  to 
keep  some  sort  of  cake  in  the  closet,  perhaps  it  was  best  I 
should." 

Mrs.  A.  laughed. 

"  Well,  now,"  said  she,  "  I  have  not  made  any  gingerbread, 
or  cake  of  any  kind,  since  that  same  conversation." 

"  Indeed  ?  " 

"No.  I  said  to  myself,  If  Mrs.  B.  thinks  it  will  do  to  go 
without  cake  in  the  house,  I  suppose  I  might,  as  she  says  it 
is  some  additional  expense  and  trouble  ;  and  so  I  gave  it  up." 

Both  ladies  laughed,  and  you  laugh,  too,  my  dear  lady 
reader  ;  but  have  you  never  done  the  same  thing  ?  Have  you 
never  altered  your  dress,  or  your  arrangements,  or 'your  house- 
keeping because  somebody  else  was  of  a  different  way  of 
thinking  or  managing — and  may  not  that  very  somebody  at 
the  same  time  have  been  moved  to  make  some  change  throuffh 
a  similar  observation  on  you  ? 
18 


206  MBS.    A.    AND    MRS.    B.,    OR 

A  large  party  is  to  be  given  by  the  young  lads  of  N.  to 
the  young  lassies  of  the  same  place  ;  they  are  to  drive  out  to- 
gether to  a  picnic  in  the  woods,  and  to  come  home  by  moon- 
light ;  the  weather  is  damp  and  uncertain,  the  ground  chill, 
and  young  people,  as  in  all  ages  before  the  flood  and  since, 
not  famous  for  the  grace  of  prudence  ;  for  all  which  reasons, 
almost  every  mamma  hesitates  about  her  daughters'  going  — 
thinks  it  a  very  great  pity  the  thing  has  been  started. 

"  I  really  don't  like  this  thing,"  says  Mrs.  G. ;  "  it's  not  a 
kind  of  thing  that  I  approve  of,  and  if  Mrs.  X.  was  not  going 
to  let  her  daughters  go,  I  should  set  myself  against  it.  How 
Mrs.  X.,  who  is  so  very  nice  in  her  notions,  can  sanction  such 
a  thing,  I  cannot  see.     I  am  really  surprised  at  Mrs.  X." 

All  this  time,  j>oor  unconscious  Mrs.  X.  is  in  a  similar 
tribulation. 

"  This  is  a  very  disagf  eeable  affair  to  me,"  she  says.  "  I 
really  have  almost  a  mind  to  say  that  my  girls  shall  not  go  ; 
but  Mrs.  G.'s  daughters  are  going,  and  Mrs.  C.'s,  and  Mrs. 
AV.'s,  and  of  course  it  would  be  idle  for  me  to  oppose  it.  I 
should  not  like  to  cast  any  reflections  on  a  course  sanctioned 
by  ladies  of  such  prudence  and  discretion." 

In  the  same  manner  Mrs.  A.,  B.,  and  C,  and  the  good 
matrons  through  the  alphabet  generally,  with  doleful  lamenta- 
tions, each  one  consents  to  the  thing  that  she  allows  not,  and 
the  affair  proceeds  swimmingly  to  the  great  satisfaction  of  the 
juveniles. 

Now  and  then,  it  is  true,  some  individual  sort  of  body,  who 
might  be  designated  by  the  angular  and  decided  letters  K  or 
L,  says  to  her  son  or  daughter,  "  No.  I  don't  approve  of 
the  thing,"  and  is  deaf  to  the  oft-urged,  "  Mrs.  A.,  B.,  and 
C.  do  so." 


WHAT    SHE    THINKS    ABOUT    IT.  207 

"  I  have  nothing  to  do  with  Mrs.  A.,  B.,  and  C.'s  arrange- 
ments," says  this  impracticable  Mrs.  K.  or  L.  "  I  only  know 
what  is  best  for  my  children,  and  they  shall  not  go." 

Again  :  Mrs.  G.  is  going  to  give  a  party  ;  and,  now,  shall 
she  give  wine,  or  not  ?  Mrs.  G.  has  heard  an  abundance  of 
temperance  speeches  and  appeals,  heard  the  duties  of  ladies 
in  the  matter  of  sanctioning  temperance  movements  aptly  set 
forth,  but  "  none  of  these  things  move  her  half  so  much  as 
another  consideration."  She  has  heard  that  Mrs.  D.  intro- 
duced wine  into  her  last  soiree.  Mrs.  D's  husband  has  been  a 
leading  orator  of  the  temperance  society,  and  Mrs.  D.  is  no  less 
a  leading  member  in  the  circles  of  fashion.  Now,  Mrs.  G.'s  soul 
is  in  great  perplexity.  If  she  only  could  be  sure  that  the  report 
about  Mrs.  D.  is  authentic,  why,  then,  of  course  the  thing  is 
settled  ;  regret  it  as  much  as  she  may,  she  cannot  get  through 
her  party  without  the  wine  ;  and  so  at  last  come  the  party 
and  the  wine.  Mrs.  D.,  who  was  incorrectly  stated  to  have 
had  the  article  at  her  last  soiree,  has  it  at  her  next  one,  and 
quotes  discreet  Mrs.  G.  as  her  precedent.  Mrs.  P.  is  greatly 
scandalized  at  this,  because  Mrs.  G.  is  a  member  of  the  church, 
and  Mr.  D.  a  leading  temperance  orator ;  but  since  they  will 
do  it,  it  is  not  for  her  to  be  nice,  and  so  she  follows  the 
fashion. 

Mrs.  N.  comes  home  from  church  on  Sunday,  rolling  up 
her  eyes  with  various  appearances  of  horror  and  surprise. 

"  Well !  I  am  going  to  give  up  trying  to  restrain  my  girls 
from  dressing  extravagantly  ;  it's  of  no  use  trying  !  —  no  use 
in  the  world." 

"  Why,  mother,  what's  the  matter  ? "  exclaimed  the  girls 
aforesaid,  delighted  to  hear  such  encouraging  declarations. 

"  Why,  didn't  you  see  Mrs.  K.'s  daughters  sitting  in  the 


208  MRS.  A.  AND    MRS.  B.,  OR 

pew  before  us  with  feathers  in  their  bonnets?  If  Mrs.  K. 
is  coming  out  in  this  way,  /  shall  give  up.  I  shan't  try 
any  longer.  I  am  going  to  get  just  what  I  want,  and 
dress  as  much  as  I've  a  mind  to.  Girls,  you  may  get 
those  visites  that  you  were  looking  at  at  Mr.  B.'s  store  last 
week ! " 

The  next  Sunday,  Mrs.  K.'s  girls  in  turn  begin :  — 

"  There,  mamma,  you  are  always  lecturing  us  about  econo- 
my, and  all  that,  and  wanting  us  to  wear  our  old  mantillas 
another  winter,  and  there  are  Mrs.  N.'s  girls  shining  out  in 
new  visites." 

Mamma  looks  sensible  and  judicious,  and  tells  the  girls  they 
ought  not  to  see  what  people  are  wearing  in  church  on  Sun- 
days ;  but  it  becomes  evident,  before  the  week  is  through,  that 
she  has  not  forgotten  the  observation.  She  is  anxiously  pri- 
cing visites,  and  looking  thoughtful  as  one  on  the  eve  of  an 
important  determination ;  and  the  next  Sunday  the  girls  ap- 
pear in  full  splendor,  with  new  visites,  to  the  increasing  horror 
of  Mrs.  N. 

So  goes  the  shuttlecock  back  and  forward,  kept  up  on  both 
sides  by  most  judicious  hands. 

In  like  manner,  at  a  modern  party,  a  circle  of  matrons  sit 
in  edifying  conclave,  and  lament  the  degeneracy  of  the  age. 

"  These  parties  that  begin  at  nine  o'clock  and  end  at  two  or 
three  in  the  morning  are  shameful  things,"  says  fat  Mrs.  Q., 
complacently  fanning  herself.  (N.  B.  Mrs.  Q.  is  plotting  to 
have  one  the  very  next  week,  and  has  come  just  to  see  the 
fashions.) 

"  0,  dreadful,  dreadful  !  "  exclaim,  in  one  chorus,  meek 
Mrs.  M.,  and  tall  Mrs.  F.,  and  stiff  Mrs.  J. 

"They  are  very  unhealthy,"  says  Mrs.  F. 


WHAT    SHE    THINKS    ABOUT    IT.  209 

"  They  disturb  all  family  order,  says  Mrs.  J. 

■"  They  make  one  so  sleepy  the  next  day,"  says  Mrs.  M. 

"  They  are  very  laborious  to  get  up,  and  entirely  useless," 
says  Mrs.  Q. ;  at  the  same  time  counting  across  the  room  the 
people  that  she  shall  invite  next  week. 

Mrs.  M.  and  Mrs.  F.  diverge  into  a  most  edifying  strain  of 
moral  reflections  on  the  improvement  of  time,  the  necessity  of 
sobriety  and  moderation,  the  evils  of  conformity  to  the  world, 
till  one  is  tempted  to  feel  that  the  tract  society  ought  to  have 
their  remarks  for  general  circulation,  Avere  one  not  damped  by 
the  certain  knowledge  that  before  the  winter  is  out  each  of 
these  ladies  will  give  exactly  such  another  party. 

And,  now,  are  all  these  respectable  ladies  hypocritical  or 
insincere  ?  By  no  means  —  they  believe  every  word  they 
say  ;  but  a  sort  of  necessity  is  laid  upon  them  —  a  spell ;  and 
before  the  breath  of  the  multitude  their  individual  resolution 
melts  away  as  the  frosty  tracery  melts  from  the  window  panes 
of  a  crowded  room. 

A  great  many  do  this  habitually,  resignedly,  as  a  matter  of 
course.  Ask  them  what  they  think  to  be  right  and  proper, 
and  they  will  tell  you  sensibly,  coherently,  and  quite  to  the 
point  in  one  direction  ;  ask  them  what  they  are  going  to  do. 
Ah  !  that  is  quite  another  matter. 

They  are  going  to  do  what  is  generally  done  —  what  Mrs. 
A.,  B.,  and  C.  do.  They  have  long  since  made  over  their 
conscience  to  the  keeping  of  the  public,  —  that  is  to  say,  of 
good  society,  —  and  are  thus  rid  of  a  troublesome  burden  of 
responsibility. 

Again,  there  are  others  who  mean  in  general  to  have  an 
opinion  and  will  of  their  own  ;  but,  imperceptibly,  as  one  and 
another  take  a  course  opposed  to  their  own  sense  of  right  and 
18* 


210  MRS.  A.  AND    MRS.  B.,  OR 

riety,  their  resolution  quietly  melts,  and  melts,  till  every 
individual  outline  of  it  is  gone,  and  they  do  as  others  do. 

Yet  is  this  influence  of  one  human  being  over  another  — 
in  some  sense,  God-appointed  —  a  necessary  result  of  the 
human  constitution.  There  is  scarcely  a  human  being  that  is 
not  varied  and  swerved  by  it,  as  the  trembling  needle  is 
swerved  by  the  approaching  magnet.  Oppose  conflict  with 
it,  as  one  may  at  a  distance,  yet  when  it  breathes  on  us 
through  the  breath,  and  shines  on  us  through  the  eye  of  an 
associate,  it  possesses  an  invisible  magnetic  power.  He  who 
is  not  at  all  conscious  of  such  impressibility  can  scarce  be 
amiable  or  human.  Nevertheless,  one  of  the  most  importast 
habits  for  the  acquisition  of  a  generous  and  noble  character, 
is  to  learn  to  act  individually,  unswerved  by  the  feelings  and 
opinions  of  others.  It  may  help  us  to  do  this,  to  reflect  that 
the  very  person  whose  opinion  we  fear  may  be  in  equal  dread 
of  ours,  and  that  the  person  to  whom  we  are  looking  for  a 
precedent  may,  at  that  very  time,  be  looking  to  us. 

In  short,  Mrs.  A.,  if  you  think  that  you  could  spend  your 
money  more  like  a  Christian  than  in  laying  it  out  on  a  fash- 
ionable party,  go  forward  and  do  it,  and  twenty  others,  whose 
supposed  opinion  you  fear,  will  be  glad  of  your  example  for  a 
precedent.  And,  Mrs.  B.,  if  you  do  think  it  wTould  be  better 
for  your  children  to  observe  early  hours,  and  form  simple 
habits,  than  to  dress  and  dance,  and  g;ve  and  go  to  juvenile 
balls,  carry  out  your  opinion  in  practice,  and  many  an  anxious 
mother,  who  is  of  the  same  opinion,  will  quote  your  example 
as  her  shield  and  defence. 

And  for  you,  young  ladies,  let  us  pray  you  to  reflect  — 
individuality  of  character,  maintained  with  womanly  sweet- 
ness, is   an   irresistible    grace    and   adornment.     Have   some 


WHAT  SHE    THINKS    ABOUT    IT.  211 

principles  of  taste  for  yourself,  and  do  not  adopt  every  fashion 
of  dress  that  is  in  vogue,  whether  it  suits  you  or  not  —  wheth- 
er it  is  becoming  or  not  —  but,  without  a  startling  variation 
from  general  form,  let  your  dress  show  something  of  your  own 
taste  and  opinions.  Have  some  principles  of  right  and  wrong 
for  yourself,  and  do  not  do  every  thing  that  every  one  else 
does,  because  every  one  else  does  it. 

Nothing  is  more  tedious  than  a  circle  of  young  ladies  who 
have  got  by  rote  a  certain  set  of  phrases  and  opinions  —  all 
admiring  in  the  same  terms  the  same  things,  and  detesting  in 
like  terms  certain  others  —  with  anxious  solicitude  each  dress- 
ing, thinking,  and  acting,  one  as  much  like  another  as  is  possi- 
ble. A  genuine  original  opinion,  even  though  it  were  so 
heretical  as  to  assert  that  Jenny  Lind  is  a  little  lower  than 
the  angels,  or  that  Shakspeare  is  rather  dull  reading,  would 
be  better  than  such  a  universal  Dead  Sea  of  acquiescence. 

These  remarks  have  borne  reference  to  the  female  sex  prin- 
cipally, because  they  are  the  dependent,  the  acquiescent  sex 
—  from  nature,  and  habit,  and  position,  most  exposed  to  be 
swayed  by  opinion  —  and  yet,  too,  in  a  certain  very  wide  de- 
partment they  are  the  lawgivers  and  custom-makers  of  society. 
If,  amid  the  multiplied  schools,  whose  advertisements  now 
throng  our  papers,  purporting  to  teach  girls  every  thing,  both 
ancient  and  modern,  high  and  low,  from  playing  on  the  harp 
and  working  pin-cushions,  up  to  civil  engineering,  surveying, 
and  navigation,  there  were  any  which  could  teach  them  to 
be  women  —  to  have  thoughts,  opinions,  and  modes  of  action 
of  their  own  —  such  a  school  would  be  worth  having.  If  one 
half  of  the  good  purposes  which  are  in  the  hearts  of  the  ladies 
of  our  nation  were  only  acted  out  without  fear  of  any  body's 
opinion,  we  should  certainly  be  a  step  nearer  the  millennium. 


CHRISTMAS;  Oil,  THE  GOOD  FAIRY. 


"  O,  dear  !  Christmas  is  coming  in  a  fortnight,  and  I  have 
got  to  think  up  presents  for  every  body ! "  said  young  Ellen 
Stuart,  as  she  leaned  languidly  back  in  her  chair.  "  Dear  me, 
it's  so  tedious  !  Every  body  has  got  every  thing  that  can  be 
thought  of." 

"  0,  no,"  said  her  confidential  adviser,  Miss  Lester,  in  a 
soothing  tone.  "  You  have  means  of  buying  every  thing  you 
can  fancy  ;  and  when  every  shop  and  store  is  glittering  with 
all  manner  of  splendors,  you  cannot  surely  be  at  a  loss." 

"  Well,  now,  just  listen.  To  begin  with,  there's  mamma. 
What  can  I  get  for  her  ?  I  have  thought  of  ever  so  many 
things.  She  has  three  card  cases,  four  gold  thimbles,  two  or 
three  gold  chains,  two  writing  desks  of  different  patterns  ;  and 
then  as  to  rings,  brooches,  boxes,  and  all  other  things,  I  should 
think  she  might  be  sick  of  the  sight  of  them.  I  am  sure  I 
am,"  said  she,  languidly  gazing  on  her  white  and  jewelled 
fingers. 

This  view  of  the  case  seemed  rather  puzzling  to  the  advi- 
ser, and  there  was  silence  for  a  few  moments,  when  Ellen, 
yawning,  resumed :  — 

"  And  then  there's  Cousins  Jane  and  Mary  ;  I  suppose  they 

(212) 


CHRISTMAS,    OR    THE    GOOD    FAIRY.  213 

will  be  coining  clown  on  me  with  a  whole  load  of  presents  ; 
•  and  Mrs.  B.  will  send  me  something  —  she  did  last  year ;  and 
then  there's  Cousins  William  and  Tom  —  I  must  get  them 
something;  and  I  would  like  to  do  it  well  enough,  if  I  only 
knew  what  to  get." 

"  Well,"  said  Eleanor's  aunt,  who  had  been  sitting  quietly- 
rattling  her  knitting  needles  during  this  speech,  "  it's  a  pity- 
that  you  had  not  such  a  subject  to  practise  on  as  I  was  when 
I  was  a  girl.  Presents  did  not  fly  about  in  those  clays  as 
they  do  now.  I  remember,  when  I  was  ten  years,  old  my 
father  gave  me  a  most  marvellously  ugly  sugar  dog  for  a  Christ- 
mas gift,  and  I  was  perfectly  delighted  with  it,  the  very  idea  of 
a  present  was  so  new  to  us." 

"  Dear  aunt,  how  delighted  I  should  be  if  I  had  any  such 
fresh,  unsophisticated  body  to  get  presents  for  !  But  to  get  and 
get  for  people  that  have  more  than  they  know  what  to  do 
with  now ;  to  add  pictures,  books,  and  gilding  when  the 
centre  tables  are  loaded  with  them  now,  and  rings  and  jewels 
when  they  are  a  perfect  drug !  I  wish  myself  that  I  were  not 
sick,  and  sated,  and  tired  with  having  every  thing  in  the 
world  given  me." 

"Well,  Eleanor,"  said  her  aunt,  "if  you  really  do  want  un- 
sophisticated subjects  to  practise  on,  I  can  put  you  in  the  way 
of  it.  I  can  show  you  more  than  one  family  to  whom  you 
might  seem  to  be  a  very  good  fairy,  and  where  such  gifts  as 
you  could  give  with  all  ease  would  seem  like  a  magic  dream." 

"  Why,  that  would  really  be  worth  while,  aunt." 

"  Look  over  in  that  back  alley,"  said  her  aunt.  "You  see 
those  buildings  ?  " 

"  That  miserable  row  of  shanties  ?     Yes." 

"  Well,  I  have  several  acquaintances  there  who  have  never 


214  CHRISTMAS,    OR    THE    GOOD    FAIRY. 

been  tired  of  Christmas  gifts,  or  gifts  of  any  other  kind.  I 
assure  you,  you  could  make  quite  a  sensation  over  there." 

"  Well,  who  is  there  ?     Let  us  know." 

"  Do  you  remember  Owen,  that  used  to  make  your  shoes  ?  " 

"  Yes,  I  remember  something  about  him." 

«  Well,  he  has  fallen  into  a  consumption,  and  cannot  work 
any  more ;  and  he,  and  his  wife,  and  three  little  children  live 
in  one  of  the  rooms." 

"  How  do  they  get  along  ?  " 

"  His  wife  takes  in  sewing  sometimes,  and  sometimes  goes 
out  washing.  Poor  Owen  !  I  was  over  there  yesterday  ;  he 
looks  thin  and  wasted,  and  his  wife  was  saying  that  he  was 
parched  with  constant  fever,  and  had  very  little  appetite. 
She  had,  with  great  self-denial,  and  by  restricting  herself  al- 
most of  necessary  food,  got  him  two  or  three  oranges  ;  and  the 
poor  fellow  seemed  so  eager  after  them  !  " 

"  Poor  fellow  !  "  said  Eleanor,  involuntarily. 

"  Now,"  said  her  aunt,  "  suppose  Owen's  wife  should  get  up 
on  Christmas  morning  and  find  at  the  door  a  couple  of  dozen 
of  oranges,  and  some  of  those  nice  white  grapes,  such  as  you 
had  at  your  party  last  week  ;  don't  you  think  it  would  make  a 
sensation  ?  " 

"  Why,  yes,  I  think  very  likely  it  might ;  but  who  else, 
aunt  ?     You  spoke  of  a  great  many." 

"  Well,  on  the  lower  floor  there  is  a  neat  little  room,  that  is 
always  kept  perfectly  trim  and  tidy ;  it  belongs  to  a  young 
couple  who  have  nothing  beyond  the  husband's  day  wages  to 
live  on.  They  are,  nevertheless,  as  cheerful  and  chipper  as  a 
couple  of  wrens  ;  and  she  is  up  and  down  half  a  dozen  times 
a  day,  to  help  poor  Mrs.  Owen.  She  has  a  baby  of  her  own, 
about  five  months  old,  and  of  course  does  all  the   cooking, 


CHRISTMAS,    OR    THE    GOOD    FAIRY.  215 

washing,  and  ironing  for  herself  and  husband  ;  and  yet,  when 
Mrs.  Owen  goes  out  to  wash,  she  takes  her  baby,  and  keeps  it 
whole  days  for  her." 

"  I'm  sure  she  deserves  that  the  good  fairies  should  smile 
on  her,"  said  Eleanor ;  "  one  baby  exhausts  my  stock  of  vir- 
tues very  rapidly." 

"  But  you  ought  to  see  her  baby,"  said  Aunt  E. ;  "  so  plump, 
so  rosy,  and  good-natured,  and  always  clean  as  a  lily.  This 
baby  is  a  sort  of  household  shrine  ;  nothing  is  too  sacred  or  too 
good  for  it ;  and  I  believe  the  little  thrifty  woman  feels  only 
one  temptation  to  be  extravagant,  and  that  is  to  get  some  or- 
naments to  adorn  this  little  divinity." 

"  Why,  did  she  ever  tell  you  so  ?  " 

"  No ;  but  one  day,  when  I  was  coming  down  stairs,  the 
door  of  their  room  was  partly  open,  and  I  saw  a  pedler 
there  with  open  box.  John,  the  husband,  was  standing  with 
a  little  purple  cap  on  his  hand,  which  he  was  regarding  with 
mystified,  admiring  air,  as  if  he  didn't  quite  comprehend  it, 
and  trim  little  Mary  gazing  at  it  with  longing  eyes. 

"  '  I  think  we  might  get  it,'  said  John. 

"  '  O,  no,'  said  she,  regretfully ;  '  yet  I  wish  we  could,  it's  so 
pretty/  '  " 

"  Say  no  more,  aunt.  I  see  the  good  fairy  must  pop  a  cap 
into  the  window  on  Christmas  morning.  Indeed,  it  shall  be 
done.  How  they  will  wonder  where  it  came  from,  and  talk 
about  it  for  months  to  come  !  " 

"  Well,  then,"  continued  her  aunt,  "  in  the  next  street  to 
ours  there  is  a  miserable  building,  that  looks  as  if  it  were  just 
going  to  topple  over  ;  and  away  up  in  the  third  story,  in  a  lit- 
tle room  just  under  the  eaves,  live  two  poor,  lonely  old  women. 
They  are  both  nearly  on  to  ninety.     I  was  in  there  day  be- 


216  CHRISTMAS,    OR    THE    GOOD    FAIRY. 

fore  yesterday.  One  of  them  is  constantly  confined  to  her  bed 
with  rheumatism;  the  other,  weak  and  feeble,  with  failing 
sight  and  trembling  hands,  totters  about,  her  only  helper ;  and 
they  are  entirely  dependent  on  charity." 

"Can't  they  do  any  thing?  Can't  they  knit?"  said  El- 
eanor. 

"  You  are  young  and  strong,  Eleanor,  and  have  quick  eyes 
and  nimble  lingers ;  how  long  would  it  take  you  to  knit  a  pair 
of  stockings  ?  " 

"  I  ?  "  said  Eleanor.  "  What  an  idea  !  I  never  tried,  but 
I  think  I  could  get  a  pair  done  in  a  week,  perhaps." 

"  And  if  somebody  gave  you  twenty-five  cents  for  them,  and 
out  of  this  you  had  to  get  food,  and  pay  room  rent,  and  buy 

coal  for  your  fire,  and  oil  for  your  lamp " 

.  "  Stop,  aunt,  for  pity's  sake  !  " 

"  Well,  I  will  stop  ;  but  they  can't:  they  must  pay  so  much 
every  month  for  that  miserable  shell  they  live  in,  or  be  turned 
into  the  street.  The  meal  and  flour  that  some  kind  person 
sends  goes  off  for  them  just  as  it  does  for  others,  and  they 
must  get  more  or  starve  ;  and  coal  is  now  scarce  and  high 
priced." 

"  O  aunt,  I'm  quite  convinced,  I'm  sure  ;  don't  run  me  down 
and  annihilate  me  with  all  these  terrible  realities.  What  shall 
I  do  to  play  good  fairy  to  these  poor  old  women  ?  " 

"  If  you  will  give  me  full  power,  Eleanor,  I  will  put  up  a 
basket  to  be  sent  to  them  that  will  give  them  something  to 
remember  all  winter." 

"  0,  certainly  I  will.  Let  me  see  if  I  can't  think  of  some- 
thing myself." 

"  Well,  Eleanor,  suppose,  then,  some  fifty  or  sixty  years 
hence,  if  you  were  old,   and  your  father,  and  mother,  and 


CHRISTMAS,    OR    THE    GOOD    FAIRY.  217 

aunts,  and  uncles,  now  so  thick  around  you,  lay  cold  and  silent 
in  so  many  graves  —  you  have  somehow  got  away  off  to  a 
strange  city,  where  you  were  never  known  —  you  live  in  a 
miserable  garret,  where  snow  blows  at  night  through  the 
cracks,  and  the  fire  is  very  apt  to  go  out  in  the  old  cracked 
stove  —  you  sit  crouching  over  the  dying  embers  the  evening 
before  Christmas  —  nobody  to  speak  to  you,  nobody  to  care 
for  you,  except  another  poor  old  soul  who  lies  moaning  in  the 
bed.     Now,  what  would  you  like  to  have  sent  you  ?  " 

"  O  aunt,  what  a  dismal  picture  !  " 

"  And  yet,  Ella,  all  poor,  forsaken  old  women  are  made  of 
young  girls,  who  expected  it  in  their  youth  as  little  as  you  do, 
perhaps." 

"  Say  no  more,  aunt.  I'll  buy  —  let  me  see  —  a  comforta- 
ble warm  shawl  for  each  of  these  poor  women  ;  and  I'll  send 
them  —  let  me  see  —  O,  some  tea  —  nothing  goes  down  with 
old  women  like  tea ;  and  I'll  make  John  wheel  some  coal  over 
to  them  ;  and,  aunt,  it  would  not  be  a  very  bad  thought  to 
send  them  a  new  stove.  I  remember,  the  other  day,  when 
mamma  was  pricing  stoves,  I  saw  some  such  nice  ones  for 
two  or  three  dollars." 

"  For  a  new  hand,  Ella,  you  work  up  the  idea  very  well," 
said  her  aunt. 

"  But  how  much  ought  I  to  give,  for  any  one  case,  to  these 
women,  say  ?  " 

"  How  much  did  you  give  last  year  for  any  single  Christ- 
mas present  ? " 

"  Why,  six  or  seven  dollars  for  some  ;  those  elegant  souve- 
nirs were  seven  dollars  ;  that  ring  I  gave  Mrs.  B.  was  twenty." 

"  And  do  you  suppose  Mrs.  B.  was  any  happier  for  it  ?  " 

"  No,  really,  I  don't  think  she  cared  much  about  it ;  but  I 
19 


218  CHRISTMAS,    OR    THE    GOOD    FAIRY. 

had  to  give  h(  r  something,  because  she  had  sent  me  something 
the  year  before,  and  I  did  not  want  to  send  a  paltry  present  to 
one  in  her  circumstances." 

"  Then,  Ella,  give  the  same  to  any  poor,  distressed,  suf- 
fering creature  who  really  needs  it,  and  see  in  how  many 
forms  of  good  such  a  sum  will  appear.  That  one  hard,  cold, 
olittering  ring,  that  now  cheers  nobody,  and  means  nothing, 
that  you  give  because  you  must,  and  she  takes  because  she 
must,  might,  if  broken  up  into  smaller  sums,  send  real  warm 
and  heartfelt  gladness  through  many  a  cold  and  cheerless 
dwelling,  through  many  an  aching  heart." 

"  You  are  getting  to  be  an  orator,  aunt ;  but  don't  you  ap- 
prove of  Christmas  presents,  among  friends  and  equals  ?  " 

"  Yes,  indeed,"  said  her  aunt,  fondly  stroking  her  head.  "  I 
have  had  some  Christmas  presents  that  did  me  a  world  of 
g00tl  —  a  little  book  mark,  for  instance,  that  a  certain  niece  of 
mine  worked  for  me,  with  wonderful  secrecy,  three  years  ago, 
when  she  was  not  a  young  lady  with  a  purse  full  of  money  — 
that  book  mark  was  a  true  Christmas  present ;  and  my  young 
couple  across  the  way  are  plotting  a  profound  surprise  to  each 
other  on  Christmas  morning.  John  has  contrived,  by  an  hour 
of  extra  work  every  night,  to  lay  by  enough  to  get  Mary  a 
new  calico  dress  ;  and  she,  poor  soul,  has  bargained  away  the 
only  thing  in  the  jewelry  line  she  ever  possessed,  to  be  laid 
out  on  a  new  hat  for  him. 

"  I  know,  too,  a  washerwoman  who  has  a  poor,  lame  boy  — 

a  patient,  gentle  little  fellow  —  who  has  lain  quietly  for  weeks 

and  months  in  his  little  crib,  and  his  mother  is  going  to  give 

him  a  splendid  Christmas  present." 

"  What  is  it,  pray  ?  " 

"  A  whole  orange  !     Don't  laugh.     She  will  pay  ten  whole 


CHRISTMAS,    OR    THE    GOOD    FAIRY.  21 'J 

cents  for  it ;  for  it  shall  be  none  of  your  common  oranges,  br.t 
a  picked  one  of  the  very  best  going  !  She  has  put  by  the 
money,  a  cent  at  a  time,  for  a  whole  month  ;  and  nobody 
knows  which  will  be  happiest  in  it,  Willie  or  his  mother. 
These  are  such  Christmas  presents  as  I  like  to  think  of  — 
gifts  coming  from  love,  and  tending  to  produce  love ;  these 
are  the  appropriate  gifts  of  the  day." 

"  But  don't  you  think  that  it's  right  for  those  who  have 
money  to  give  expensive  presents,  supposing  always,  as  you 
say,  they  are  given  from  real  affection  ?  " 

"  Sometimes,  undoubtedly.  The  Savior  did  not  condemn 
her  who  broke  an  alabaster  box  of  ointment  —  very  precious 
—  simply  as  a  proof  of  love,  even  although  the  suggestion  was 
made,  '  This  might  have  been  sold  for  three  hundred  pence, 
and  given  to  the  poor.'  I  have  thought  he  would  regard  with 
sympathy  the  fond  efforts  which  human  love  sometimes  makes 
to  express  itself  by  gifts,  the  rarest  and  most  costly.  How  I 
rejoiced  with  all  my  heart,  when  Charles  Elton  gave  his  poor 
mother  that  splendid  Chinese  shawl  and  gold  watch  !  because 
I  knew  they  came  from  the  very  fulness  of  his  heart  to  a 
mother  that  he  could  not  do  too  much  for  —  a  mother  that  has 
done  and  suffered  every  thing  for  him.  In  some  such  cases, 
when  resources  are  ample,  a  costly  gift  seems  to  have  a  grace- 
ful appropriateness  ;  but  I  cannot  approve  of  it  if  it  exhausts 
all  the  means  of  doing  for  the  poor ;  it  is  better,  then,  to  give 
a  simple  offering,  and  to  do  something  for  those  who  really 
need  it." 

Eleanor  looked  thoughtful ;  her  aunt  laid  doAvn  her  knitting, 
and  said,  in  a  tone  of  gentle  seriousness,  "  Whose  birth  does 
Christmas  commemorate,  Ella  ?  " 

u  Our  Savior's,  certainly,  aunt." 


220  CHRISTMAS,    OR    THE    GOOD    FAIRY. 

"  Yes,"  said  her  aunt.  "  And  when  and  how  was  he  born? 
In  a  stable  !  laid  in  a  manger  ;  thus  born,  that  in  all  ages  he 
might  be  known  as  the  brother  and  friend  of  the  poor.  And 
surely,  it  seems  but  appropriate  to  commemorate  his  birthday 
by  an  especial  remembrance  of  the  lowly,  the  poor,  the  out- 
cast, and  distressed  ;  and  if  Christ  should  come  back  to  our 
city  on  a  Christmas  day,  where  should  we  think  it  most  appro- 
priate to  his  character  to  find  him  ?  Would  he  be  carrying 
splendid  gifts  to  splendid  dwellings,  or  would  he  be  gliding 
about  in  the  cheerless  haunts  of  the  desolate,  the  poor,  the 
forsaken,  and  the  sorrowful  ?  " 

And  here  the  conversation  ended. 


"What  sort  of  Christmas  presents  is  Ella  buying?"  said 
Cousin  Tom,  as  the  waiter  handed  in  a  portentous-looking 
package,  which  had  been  just  rung  in  at  the  door. 

"  Let's  open  it,"  said  saucy  Will.  "  Upon  my  word,  two 
great  gray  blanket  shawls  !  These  must  be  for  you  and  me, 
Tom  !  And  what's  this  ?  A  great  bolt  of  cotton  flannel  and 
gray  yarn  stockings  !  " 

The  door  bell  rang  again,  and  the  waiter  brought  in  another 
bulky  parcel,  and  deposited  it  on  the  marble-topped  centre 
table. 

"  What's  here  ?  "  said  Will,  cutting  the  cord.  "  Whew  !  a 
perfect  nest  of  packages  !  oolong  tea  !  oranges  !  grapes  !  white 
sugar  !     Bless  me,  Ella  must  be  going  to  housekeeping  !  " 

"  Or  going  crazy  !  "  said  Tom  ;  "  and  on  my  word,"  said  he, 
looking  out  of  the  window,  "there's  a  drayman  ringing  at  our 
door,  with  a  stove,  with  a  teakettle  set  in  the  top  of  it !  " 

"  Ella's  cook  stove,  of  course,"  said  Will  ;  and  just  at  this 


CHRISTMAS,    OR    THE    GOOD    FAIRY.  221 

moment  the  young  lady  entered,  with  her  purse  hanging  grace- 
fully over  her  hand. 

"  Now,  boys,  you  are  too  bad  !  "  she  exclaimed,  as  each  of 
the  mischievous  youngsters  were  gravely  marching  up  and 
down,  attired  in  a  gray  shawl. 

"  Didn't  you  get  them  for  us  ?  We  thought  you  did,"  said 
both. 

"  Ella,  I  want  some  of  that  cotton  flannel,  to  make  me  a 
pair  of  pantaloons,"  said  Tom. 

"  I  say,  Ella,"  said  Will,  "  when  are  you  going  to  house- 
keeping ?  Your  cooking  stove  is  standing  down  in  the  street ; 
'pon  my  word,  John  is  loading  some  coal  on  the  dray  with  it." 

"  Ella,  isn't  that  going  to  be  sent  to  my  office  ?  "  said  Tom ; 
do  you  know  I  do  so  languish  for  a  new  stove  with  a  teakettle 
in  the  top,  to  heat  a  fellow's  shaving  water  !  " 

Just  then,  another  ring  at  the  door,  and  the  grinning  waiter 
handed  in  a  small  brown  paper  parcel  for  Miss  Ella.  Tom 
made  a  dive  at  it,  and  staving  off  the  brown  paper,  developed 
a  janty  little  purple  velvet  cap,  with  silver  tassels. 

"  My  smoking  cap,  as  I  live  !  "  said  he  ;  "  only  I  shall  have 
to  wear  it  on  my  thumb,  instead  of  my  head  —  too  small  en- 
tirely," said  he,  shaking  his  head  gravely. 

"  Come,  you  saucy  boys,"  said  Aunt  E.,  entering  briskly, 
"  what  are  you  teasing  Ella  for  ?  " 

"  Why,  do  see  this  lot  of  things,  aunt !  What  in  the  world 
is  Ella  going  to  do  with  them  ?  " 

"  0,  I  know  !  " 

"  You  know  !  Then  I  can  guess,  aunt,  it  is  some  of  your 
charitable  works.  You  are  going  to  make  a  juvenile  Lady 
Bountiful  of  El,  eh  ?  " 

Ella,  who  had  colored  to  the  roots  of  her  hair  at  the  expose 
19* 


222  CHRISTMAS,    OR    THE    GOOD    FAIRY. 

of  her  very  unfashionable  Christmas  preparations,  now  took 
heart,  and  bestowed  a  very  gentle  and  salutary  little  cuff  on 
the  saucy  head  that  still  wore  the  purple  cap,  and  then  has- 
tened to  gather  up  her  various  purchases. 

"  Laugh  away,"  said  she,  gayly  ;  "  and  a  good  many  others 
will  laugh,  too,  over  these  things.  I  got  them  to  make  people 
laugh  —  people  that  are  not  in  the  habit  of  laughing  ! " 

"  Well,  well,  I  see  into  it,"  said  Will ;  "  and  I  tell  you  I 
think  right  well  of  the  idea,  too.  There  are  worlds  of  money 
wasted,  at  this  time  of  the  year,  in  getting  things  that  nobody 
wants,  and  nobody  cares  for  after  they  are  got ;  and  I  am 
glad,  for  my  part,  that  you  are  going  to  get  up  a  variety  in 
this  line  ;  in  fact,  I  should  like  to  give  you  one  of  these  stray 
leaves  to  help  on,"  said  he,  dropping  a  ten  dollar  note  into  her 
paper.  I  like  to  encourage  girls  to  think  of  something  besides 
breastpins  and  sugar  candy." 

But  our  story  spins  on  too  long.  If  any  body  wants  to  see 
the  results  of  Ella's  first  attempts  at  good  fairy  ism,  they  can 
call  at  the  doors  of  two  or  three  old  buildings  on  Christmas 
morning,  and  they  shall  hear  all  about  it. 


EARTHLY  CARE  A  HEAVENLY 
DISCIPLINE. 


"  Why  should  these  cares  my  heart  divide, 
If  Thou,  indeed,  hast  set  me  free  ? 
Why  am  I  thus,  if  Thou  hast  died  — 
If  Thou  hast  died  to  ransom  me  ?  " 

Nothing  is  more  frequently  felt  and  spoken  of,  as  a 
hinderance  to  the  inward  life  of  devotion,  than  the  "  cares  of 
life ; "  and  even  upon  the  showing  of  our  Lord  himself,  the 
cares  of  the  world  are  the  thorns  that  choke  the  word,  and  it 
becometh  unfruitful. 

And  yet,  if  this  is  a  necessary  and  inevitable  result  of 
worldly  care,  why  does  the  providence  of  God  so  order  things 
that  it  forms  so  large  and  unavoidable  a  part  of  every  human 
experience  ?  Why  is  the  physical  system  of  man  arranged 
with  such  daily,  oft-recurring  wants  ?  Why  does  his  nature, 
in  its  full  development,  tend  to  that  state  of  society  in  which 
wants  multiply,  and  the  business  of  supply  becomes  more 
complicated,  and  requiring  constantly  more  thought  and  atten- 
tion, and  bringing  the  outward  and  seen  into  a  state  of  con- 
stant friction  and  pressure  on  the  inner  and  spiritual  ? 

Has  God  arranged   an   outward  system  to  be  a  constant 

(223) 


224  EARTHLY    CAKE    A    HEAVENLY    DISCIPLINE. 

diversion  from  the  inward  —  a  weight  on  its  wheels  —  a 
burden  on  its  wings  —  and  then  commanded  a  strict  and  rigid 
inwardness  and  spirituality  ?  Why  placed  us  where  the  things 
that  are  seen  and  temporal  must  unavoidably  have  so  much 
of  our  thoughts,  and  time,  and  care,  yet  said  to  us,  "  Set  your 
affections  on  things  above,  and  not  on  things  on  the  earth. 
Love  not  the  world,  neither  the  things  of  the  world"  ?  And 
why  does  one  of  our  brightest  examples  of  Christian  experi- 
ence, as  it  should  be,  say,  "  While  we  look  not  on  the  things 
which  are  seen,  but  on  the  things  which  are  not  seen ;  for  the 
things  which  are  seen  are  temporal,  but  the  things  that  are  not 
seen  are  eternal"? 

The  Bible  tells  us  that  our  whole  existence  here  is  a  disci- 
plinary one  ;  that  this  whole  physical  system,  by  which  our 
spirit  is  enclosed  with  all  the  joys  and  sorrows,  hopes  and 
fears,  and  wants  which  form  a  part  of  it,  are  designed  as  an 
education  to  fit  the  soul  for  its  immortality  ;  and  as  worldly 
care  forms  the  greater  part  of  the  staple  of  every  human 
life,  there  must  be  some  mode  of  viewing  and  meeting  it, 
which  converts  it  from  an  enemy  of  spirituality  into  a  means 
of  grace  and  spiritual  advancement. 

Why,  then,  do  we  so  often  hear  the  lamentation,  "  It  seems 
to  me  as  if  I  could  advance  to  the  higher  stages  of  Chris- 
tian life,  if  it  were  not  for  the  pressure  of  my  business  and  the 
multitude  of  my  worldly  cares"?  Is  it  not  God,  O  Christian, 
who,  in  ordering  thy  lot,  has  laid  these  cares  upon  thee,  and 
who  still  holds  them  about  thee,  and  permits  no  escape  from 
them?  And  as  his  great,  undivided  object  is  thy  spiritual  im- 
provement, is  there  not  some  misapprehension  or  wrong  use 
of  these  cares,  if  they  do  not  tend  to  advance  it  ?  Is  it  not 
even  as  if  a  scholar  should  say,  I  could  advance  in  science 


EARTHLY    CARE    A   HEAVENLY    DISCIPLINE.  225 

were  it  not  for  all  the  time  and  care  which  lessons,  and  books, 
and  lectures  require  ? 

How,  then,  shall  earthly  care  become  heavenly  discipline  ? 
How  shall  the  disposition  of  the  weight  be  altered  so  as  to 
press  the  spirit  upward  towards  God,  instead  of  downward 
and  away  ?  How  shall  the  pillar  of  cloud  which  rises  be- 
tween us  and  him  become  one  of  fire,  to  reflect  upon  us  con- 
stantly the  light  of  his  countenance,  and  to  guide  us  over  the 
sands  of  life's  desert  ? 

It  appears  to  us  that  the  great  radical  difficulty  is  an  intel- 
lectual one,  and  lies  in  a  wrong  belief.  There  is  not  a  gen- 
uine and  real  belief  of  the  presence  and  agency  of  God  in 
the  minor  events  and  details  of  life,  which  is  necessary  to 
change  them  from  secular  cares  into  spiritual  blessings. 

It  is  true  there  is  much  loose  talk  about  an  overruling 
Providence  ;  and  yet,  if  fairly  stated,  the  belief  of  a  great 
many  Christians  might  be  thus  expressed  :  God  has  organized 
and  set  in  operation  certain  general  laws  of  matter  and  mind, 
which  work  out  the  particular  results  of  life,  and  over  these 
laws  he  exercises  a  general  supervision  and  care,  so  that  all 
the  great  affairs  of  the  world  are  carried  on  after  the  counsel 
of  his  own  will ;  and  in  a  certain  general  sense,  all  things  are 
working  together  for  good  to  those  that  love  God.  But  when 
some  simple-minded,  childlike  Christian  really  proceeds  to 
refer  all  the  smaller  events  of  life  to  God's  immediate  care 
and  agency,  there  is  a  smile  of  incredulity,  and  it  is  thought 
that  the  good  brother  displays  more  Christian  feeling  than 
sound  philosophy. 

But  as  life  for  every  individual  is  made  up  of  fractions  and 
minute  atoms  —  as  those  things  which  go  to  affect  habits  and 
character  are  small  and  hourly  recurring,  it  comes   to   pass 


226  EARTHLY    CARE    A    HEAVENLY    DISCIPLINE. 

that  a  belief  in  Providence  so  very  wide  and  general,  is  alto- 
gether inefficient  for  consecrating  and  rendering  sacred  the 
great  body  of  what  comes  in  contact  with  the  mind  in  the 
experience  of  life.  Only  once  in  years  does  the  Christian 
with  this  kind  of  belief  hear  the  voice  of  the  Lord  God 
speaking  to  him.  When  the  hand  of  death  is  laid  on  his 
child,  or  the  bolt  strikes  down  the  brother  by  his  side,  then, 
indeed,  he  feels  that  God  is  drawing  near  ;  he  listens  humbly 
for  the  inward  voice  that  shall  explain  the  meaning  and  need 
of  this  discipline.  When  by  some  unforeseen  occurrence  the 
whole  of  his  earthly  property  is  swept  away,  —  he  becomes  a 
poor  man,  —  this  event,  in  his  eyes,  assumes  sufficient  magni- 
tude to  have  come  from- God,  and  to  have  a  design- and  mean- 
ing ;  but  when  smaller  comforts  are  removed,  smaller  losses 
are  encountered,  and  the  petty,  every-day  vexations  and 
annoyances  of  life  press  about  him,  he  recognizes  no  God, 
and  hears  no  voice,  and  sees  no  design.  Hence  John  New- 
ton says,  "  Many  Christians,  who  bear  the  loss  of  a  child,  or 
the  destruction  of  all  their  property,  with  the  most  heroic 
Christian  fortitude,  are  entirely  vanquished  and  overcome 
by  the  breaking  of  a  dish,  or  the  blunders  of  a  servant,  and 
show  so  unchristian  a  spirit,  that  we  cannot  but  wonder  at 
them." 

So  when  the  breath  of  slander,  or  the  pressure  of  human 
injustice,  comes  so  heavily  on  a  man  as  really  to  threaten  loss 
of  character,  and  destruction  of  his  temporal  interests,  he 
seems  forced  to  recognize  the  hand  and  voice  of  God,  through 
the  veil  of  human  agencies,  and  in  time-honored  words  to 
say,  — 

"  When  men  of  spite  against  mc  join, 
They  are  the  sicord ;  the  hand  is  thine." 


EARTHLY    CARE    A    HEAVENLY    DISCIPLINE.  227 

But  the  smaller  injustice  and  fault-finding  which  meet  every 
one  more  or  less  in  the  daily  intercourse  of  life,  the  overheard 
remark,  the  implied  censure,  too  petty,  perhaps,  to  be  even  spo- 
ken of,  these  daily  recurring  sources  of  disquietude  and  unhappi- 
ness  are  not  referred  to  God's  providence,  nor  considered  as  a 
part  of  his  probation  and  discipline.  Those  thousand  vexations 
which  come  upon  us  through  the  unreasonableness,  the  care- 
lessness, the  various  constitutional  failings,  or  ill-adaptedness  of 
others  to  our  peculiarities  of  character,  form  a  very  large  item 
of  the  disquietudes  of  life ;  and  yet  how  very  few  look  be- 
yond the  human  agent,  and  feel  these  are  trials  coming  from 
God !  Yet  it  is  true,  in  many  cases,  that  these  so  called  mi- 
nor vexations  form  the  greater  part,  and  in  many  cases  the 
only  discipline  of  life  ;  and  to  those  that  do  not  view  them  as 
ordered  individually  by  God,  and  coming  upon  them  by  speci- 
fied design,  "their  affliction  'really'  cometh  of  the  dust,  and 
their  trouble  springs  out  of  the  ground ;  "  it  is  sanctified  and 
relieved  by  no  divine  presence  and  aid,  but  borne  alone  and 
in  a  mere  human  spirit,  and  by  mere  human  reliances,  it  acts 
on  the  mind  as  a  constant  diversion  and  hinderance,  instead  of 
a  moral  discipline. 

Hence,  too,  come  a  coldness,  and  generality,  and  wandering 
of  mind  in  prayer:  the  things  that  are  on  the  heart,  that 
are  distracting  the  mind,  that  have  filled  the  soul  so  full 
that  there  is  no  room  for  any  thing  else,  are  all  considered  too 
small  and  undignified  to  come  within  the  pale  of  a  prayer, 
and  so,  with  a  wandering  mind  and  a  distracted  heart,  the 
Christian  offers  up  his  prayer  for  things  which  he  thinks  he 
ought  to  want,  and  makes  no  mention  of  those  which  he  does. 
He  prays  that  God  would  pour  out  his  spirit  on  the  heathen, 
and  convert  the  world,  and  build  up  his  kingdom  every  where, 


228  EARTHLY    CARE    A    HEAVENLY    DISCIPLINE. 

when  perhaps  a  whole  set  of  little  anxieties,  and  wants,  and 
vexations  are  so  distracting  his  thoughts,  that  he  hardly  knows 
what  he  has  been  saying  :  a  faithless  servant  is  wasting  his 
property  ;  a  careless  or  blundering  workman  has  spoiled  a  lot 
of  goods  ;  a  child  is  vexatious  or  unruly  ;  a  friend  has  made 
promises  and  failed  to  keep  them  ;  an  acquaintance  has  made  un- 
just or  satirical  remarks  ;  some  new  furniture  has  been  damaged 
or  ruined  by  carelessness  in  the  household  ;  but  all  this  trouble 
forms  no  subject  matter  for  prayer,  though  there  it  is,  all  the 
while  lying  like  lead  on  the  heart,  and  keeping  it  down,  so  that 
it  has  no  power  to  expand  and  take  in  any  thing  else.  But 
were  God  known  and  regarded  as  the  soul's  familiar  friend,  were 
every  trouble  of  the  heart  as  it  rises,  breathed  into  his  bosom  ; 
were  it  felt  that  there  is  not  one  of  the  smallest  of  life's  troubles 
that  has  not  been  permitted  by  him,  and  permitted  for  specific 
good  purpose  to  the  soul,  how  much  more  would  these  be  in 
prayer !  how  constant,  how  daily  might  it  become  !  how  it 
mi  "-lit  settle  and  clear  the  atmosphere  of  the  soul !  how  it 
might  so  dispose  and  lay  away  many  anxieties  which  now 
take  up  their  place  there,  that  there  might  be  room  for  the 
higher  themes  and  considerations  of  religion ! 

Many  sensitive  and  fastidious  natures  are  worn  away  by 
the  constant  friction  of  what  are  called  little  troubles.  With- 
out any  great  affliction,  they  feel  that  all  the  flower  and  sweet- 
ness of  their  life  have  faded ;  their  eye  grows  dim,  their  cheek 
care-worn,  and  their  spirit  loses  hope  and  elasticity,  and  be- 
comes bowed  with  premature  age  ;  and  in  the  midst  of  tangi- 
ble and  physical  comfort,  they  are  restless  and  unhappy.  The 
constant  under-current  of  little  cares  and  vexations,  which  is 
slowly  wearing  on  the  liner  springs  of  life,  is  seen  by  no  one; 
scarce  ever  do  they  speak  of  these  things   to   their  nearest 


EARTHLY    CARE    A    HEAVENLY    DISCIPLINE.  229 

friends.  Yet  were  there  a  friend  of  a  spirit  so  discerning  as 
to  feel  and  sympathize  in  all  these  things,  how  much  of  this 
repressed  electric  restlessness  would  pass  off  through  such  a 
sympathizing  mind. 

Yet  among  human  friends  this  is  all  but  impossible,  for 
minds  are  so  diverse  that  what  is  a  trial  and  a  care  to  one  is 
a  matter  of  sport  and  amusement  to  another ;  and  all  the  in- 
ner world  breathed  into  a  human  ear  only  excites  a  surprised 
or  contemptuous  pity.  Whom,  then,  shall  the  soul  turn  to  ? 
Who  will  feel  that  to  be  affliction  which  each  spirit  feels  to  be 
so  ?  If  the  soul  shut  itself  within  itself,  it  becomes  morbid ; 
the  fine  chords  of  the  mind  and  nerves  by  constant  wear 
become  jarring  and  discordant ;  hence  fretfulness,  discon- 
tent, and  habitual  irritability  steal  over  the  sincere  Chris- 
tian. 

But  to  the  Christian  that  really  believes  in  the  agency  of 
God  in  the  smallest  events  of  life,  that  confides  in  his  love, 
and  makes  his  sympathy  his  refuge,  the  thousand  minute 
cares  and  perplexities  of  life  become  each  one  a  fine  affiliat- 
ing bond  between  the  soul  and  its  God.  God  is  known,  not  by 
abstract  definition,  and  by  high-raised  conceptions  of  the  soul's 
aspiring  hours,  but  known  as  a  man  knoweth  his  friend ;  he  is 
known  by  the  hourly  wants  he  supplies ;  known  by  every 
care  with  which  he  momentarily  sympathizes,  every  appre- 
hension which  he  relieves,  every  temptation  which  he  en- 
ables us  to  surmount.  We  learn  to  know  God  as  the  infant 
child  learns  to  know  its  mother  and  its  father,  by  all  the  help- 
lessness and  all  the  dependence  which  are  incident  to  this  com- 
mencement of  our  moral  existence  ;  and  as  we  go  on  thus  year 
by  year,  and  find  in  every  changing  situation,  in  every  reverse, 
20 


230  EARTHLY    CARE    A    HEAVENLY    DISCIPLINE. 

in  every  trouble,  from  the  lightest  sorrow  to  those  which 
wring  our  soul  from  its  depths,  that  he  is  equally  present,  and 
that  his  gracious  aid  is  equally  adequate,  our  faith  seems  grad- 
ually almost  to  change  to  sight ;  and  God's  existence,  his  love 
and  care,  seem  to  us  more  real  than  any  other  source  of  reli- 
ance, and  multiplied  cares  and  trials  are  only  new  avenues  of 
acquaintance  between  us  and  heaven. 

Suppose,  in  some  bright  vision  unfolding  to  our  view,  in 
tranquil  evening  or  solemn  midnight,  the  glorified  form  of 
some  departed  friend  should  appear  to  us  with  the  announce- 
ment, "  This  year  is  to  be  to  you  one  of  especial  probation 
and  discipline,  with  reference  to  perfecting  you  for  a  heavenly 
state.  Weigh  well  and  consider  every  incident  of  your  daily 
life,  for  not  one  shall  fall  out  by  accident,  but  each  one  is  to 
be  a  finished  and  indispensable  link  in  a  bright  chain  that  is 
to  draw  you  upward  to  the  skies !  " 

With  what  new  eyes  should  we  now  look  on  our  daily  lot ! 
and  if  we  found  in  it  not  a  single  change,  —  the  same  old 
cares,  the  same  perplexities,  the  same  uninteresting  drudgeries 
still,  —  with  what  new  meaning  would  every  incident  be  in- 
vested !  and  with  what  other  and  sublimer  spirit  could  Ave 
meet  them  ?  Yet,  if  announced  by  one  rising  from  the  dead 
with  the  visible  glory  of  a  spiritual  world,  this  truth  could  be 
asserted  no  more  clearly  and  distinctly  than  Jesus  Christ  has 
stated  it  already.  Not  a  sparrow  falleth  to  the  ground  with- 
out our  Father.  Not  one  of  them  is  forgotten  by  him  ;  and 
we  are  of  more  value  than  many  sparrows ;  yea,  even  the 
hairs  of  our  head  are  all  numbered.  Not  till  belief  in  these 
declarations,  in  their  most  literal  sense,  becomes  the  calm 
and   settled   habit  of   the   soul,  is  life    ever   redeemed  from 


EARTHLY    CARE    A    HEAVENLY   DISCIPLINE.  231 

drudgery  and  dreary  emptiness,  and  made  full  of  interest, 
meaning,  and  divine  significance.  Not  till  then  do  its  grovel- 
ling wants,  its  wearing  cares,  its  stinging  vexations,  become  to 
us  ministering  spirits,  each  one,  by  a  silent  but  certain  agen- 
cy, fitting  us  for  a  higher  and  perfect  sphere. 


CONVERSATION  ON  CONVERSATION. 


"  For  every  idle  word  that  men  shall  speak,  they  shall  give  account 
thereof  in  the  day  of  judgment." 

"  A  very  solemn  sermon,"  said  Miss  B.,  shaking  her  head 
impressively,  as  she  sat  down  to  table  on  Sunday  noon ;  then 
giving  a  deep  sigh,  she  added,  "  I  am  afraid  that  if  an  account 
is  to  be  rendered  for  all  our  idle  words,  some  people  will  have 
a  great  deal  to  answer  for." 

"  Why,  Cousin  Anna,"  replied  a  sprightly  young  lady  oppo- 
site, "  what  do  you  mean  by  idle  words  ?  " 

"  All  words  that  have  not  a  strictly  useful  tendency,  Helen," 
replied  Miss  B. 

"  I  don't  know  what  is  to  become  of  me,  then,"  answered 
Helen,  "  for  I  never  can  think  of  any  thing  useful  to  say.  I 
sit  and  try  sometimes,  but  it  always  stops  my  talking.  I  don't 
think  any  thing  in  the  world  is  so  doleful  as  a  set  of  persons 
sitting  round,  all  trying  to  say  something  useful,  like  a  parcel 
of  old  clocks  ticking  at  each  other.  I  think  one  might  as 
well  take  the  vow  of  entire  silence,  like  the  monks  of  La 
Trappe." 

"  It  is  probable,"  said  Miss  B.,  "  that  a  greater  part  of  our 
ordinary  conversation  had  better  be  dispensed  with.     '  In  the 

(232) 


CONVERSATION    ON    CONVERSATION.  233 

multitude  of  words  there  wanteth  not  sin.'  For  my  own 
part,  my  conscience  often  reproaches  me  with  the  sins  of  my 
tongue." 

"  I'm  sure  you  don't  sin  much  that  way,  I  must  say,"  said 
Helen ;  "  but,  cousin,  I  really  think  it  is  a  freezing  business 
sitting  still  and  reflecting  all  the  time  when  friends  are  to- 
gether ;  and  after  all  I  can't  bring  myself  to  feel  as  if  it  were 
wrong  to  talk  and  chatter  away  a  good  part  of  the  time,  just 
for  the  sake  of  talking.  For  instance,  if  a  friend  comes  in 
of  a  morning  to  make  a  call,  I  talk  about  the  weather,  my 
roses,  my  Canary  birds,  or  any  thing  that  comes  uppermost." 

"And  about  lace,  and  bonnet  patterns,  and  the  last  fashions," 
added  Miss  B.,  sarcastically. 

"  Well,  supposing  we  do  ;  where's  the  harm  ?  " 

"  Where's  the  good  ?  "  said  Miss  B. 

"  The  good !  why,  it  passes  time  agreeably,  and  makes  us 
feel  kindly  towards  each  other." 

"  I  think,  Helen,"  said  Miss  B.,  "  if  you  had  a  higher  view 
of  Christian  responsibility,  you  would  not  be  satisfied  with 
merely  passing  time  agreeably,  or  exciting  agreeable  feelings 
in  others.  Does  not  the  very  text  we  are  speaking  of  show 
that  we  have  an  account  to  give  in  the  day  of  judgment  for 
all  this  trifling,  useless  conversation?" 

"  I  don't  know  what  that  text  does  mean,"  replied  Helen, 
looking  seriously ;  "  but  if  it  means  as  you  say,  I  think  it  is  a 
very  hard,  strait  rule." 

"Well,"  replied  Miss  B.,  "is  not  duty  always  hard  and 
strait  ?  <  Strait  is  the  gate,  and  narrow  is  the  way,'  you 
know." 

Helen  sighed. 

"  What  do  you  think  of  this,  Uncle  C.  ?  "  she  said,  after  some 
20* 


234        CONVERSATION  ON  CONVERSATION. 

pause.  The  uncle  of  the  two  young  ladies  had  been  listening 
thus  far  in  silence. 

"  I  think,"  he  replied,  "  that  before  people  begin  to  discuss, 
they  should  be  quite  sure  as  to  what  they  are  talking  about ; 
and  I  am  not  exactly  clear  in  this  case.  You  say,  Anna,"  said 
he,  turning  to  Miss  B.,  "  that  all  conversation  is  idle  which  has 
not  a  directly  useful  tendency.  Now,  what  do  you  mean  by 
that  ?  Are  we  never  to  say  any  thing  that  has  not  for  its 
direct  and  specific  object  to  benefit  others  or  ourselves?" 

"  Yes,"  replied  Miss  B.,  "  I  suppose  not." 

"  Well,  then,  when  I  say,  *  Good  morning,  sir ;  'tis  a  pleas- 
ant day/  I  have  no  such  object.  Are  these,  then,  idle 
words  ?  " 

"  Why,  no,  not  exactly,"  replied  Miss  B. ;  "in  some  cases  it 
is  necessary  to  say  something,  so  as  not  to  appear  rude." 

"  Very  well,"  replied  her  uncle.  "  You  admit,  then,  that 
some  things,  which  are  not  instructive  in  themselves  consid- 
ered, are  to  be  said  to  keep  up  the  intercourse  of  society." 

"  Certainly ;  some  things,"  said  Miss  B. 

"  Well,  now,  in  the  case  mentioned  by  Helen,  when  two  or 
three  people  with  whom  you  are  in  different  degrees  of  inti- 
macy call  upon  you,  I  think  she  is  perfectly  right,  as  she  said, 
in  talking  of  roses,  and  Canary  birds,  and  even  of  bonnet  pat- 
terns, and  lace,  or  any  thing  of  the  kind,  for  the  sake  of  mak- 
ing conversation.  It  amounts  to  the  same  thing  as  '  good 
morning,'  and  '  good  evening,'  and  the  other  courtesies  of  soci- 
ety. This  sort  of  small  talk  has  nothing  instructive  in  it,  and 
yet  it  may  be  useful  in  its  place.  It  makes  people  comfort- 
able and  easy,  promotes  kind  and  social  feelings ;  and  making 
people  comfortable  by  any  innocent  means  is  certainly  not  a 
thing  to  be  despised." 


CONVERSATION    ON    CONVERSATION.  235 

"  But  is  there  not  great  danger  of  becoming  light  and  tri- 
fling if  one  allows  this  ?  "  said  Miss  B.,  doubtfully. 

"  To  be  sure  ;  there  is  always  danger  of  running  every  in- 
nocent thing  to  excess.  One  might  eat  to  excess,  or  drink  to 
excess  ;  yet  eating  and  drinking  are  both  useful  in  their  way. 
Now,  our  lively  young  friend  Helen,  here,  might  perhaps  be 
in  some  temptation  of  this  sort ;  but  as  for  you,  Anna,  I  think 
you  in  more  danger  of  another  extreme." 

"  And  what  is  that  ?  " 

"  Of  overstraining  your  mind  by  endeavoring  to  keep  up  a 
constant,  fixed  state  of  seriousness  and  solemnity,  and  not  al- 
lowing yourself  the  relaxation  necessary  to  preserve  its  healthy 
tone.  In  order  to  be  healthy,  every  mind  must  have  variety 
and  amusement ;  and  if  you  would  sit  down  at  least  one  hour 
a  day,  and  join  your  friends  in  some  amusing  conversation, 
and  indulge  in  a  good  laugh,  I  think,  my  dear,  that  you  would 
not  only  be  a  happier  person,  but  a  better  Christian." 

"  My  dear  uncle,"  said  Miss  B.,  "  this  is  the  very  thing  that 
I  have  been  most  on  my  guard  against ;  I  can  never  tell 
stories,  or  laugh  and  joke,  without  feeling  condemned  for  it 
afterwards." 

"  But,  my  dear,  you  must  do  the  thing  in  the  testimony  of 
a  good  conscience  before  you  can  do  it  to  any  purpose.  You 
must  make  up  your  mind  that  cheerful  and  entertaining  con- 
versation —  conversation  whose  first  object  is  to  amuse  —  is 
useful  conversation  in  its  place,  and  then  your  conscience  will 
not  be  injured  by  joining  in  it." 

"  But  what  good  does  it  do,  uncle  ?  " 

"  Do  you  not  often  complain  of  coldness  and  deadness  in  your 
religious  feelings  ?  of  lifelessness  and  want  of  interest  ?  " 

"  Yes,  uncle." 


236         CONVERSATION  ON  CONVERSATION. 

"  Well,  this  coldness  and  lifelessness  is  the  result  of  forcing 
your  mind  to  one  set  of  thoughts  and  feelings.  You  become 
worn  out  —  your  feelings  exhausted  —  deadness  and  depres- 
sion ensues.  Now,  turn  your  mind  off  from  these  subjects  — 
divert  it  by  a  cheerful  and  animated  conversation,  and  you 
will  find,  after  awhile,  that  it  will  return  to  them  with  new 
life  and  energy." 

"But  are  not  foolish  talking  and  jesting  expressly  forbid- 
den?" 

"  That  text,  if  you  will  look  at  the  connections,  does  not 
forbid  jesting  in  the  abstract ;  but  jesting  on  immodest  sub- 
jects —  which  are  often  designated  in  the  New  Testament  by 
the  phraseology  there  employed.  I  should  give  the  sense  of 
it  —  neither  filthiness,  nor  foolish  talking,  nor  indelicate  jests. 
The  kind  of  sprightly  and  amusing  conversation  to  which  I 
referred,  I  should  not  denominate  foolish,  by  any  means,  at 
proper  times  and  places." 

"  Yet  people  often  speak  of  gayety  as  inconsistent  in  Chris- 
tians —  even  worldly  people,"  said  Miss  B. 

"  Yes,  because,  in  the  first  place,  they  often  have  wrong  ideas 
as  to  what  Christianity  requires  in  this  respect,  and  suppose 
Christians  to  be  violating  their  own  principles  in  indulging 
in  it.  In  the  second  place,  there  are  some,  especially  among 
young  people,  who  never  talk  in  any  other  way  —  with  whom 
this  kind  of  conversation  is  not  an  amusement,  but  a  habit  — 
giving  the  impression  that  they  never  think  seriously  at  all. 
But  I  think,  that  if  persons  are  really  possessed  by  the  tender, 
affectionate,  benevolent  spirit  of  Christianity  —  if  they  regu- 
late their  temper  and  their  tongue  by  it,  and  in  all  their  ac- 
tions show  an  evident  effort  to  cpnform  to  its  precepts,  they 
will  not  do  harm  by  occasionally  indulging  in  sprightly  and 


CONVERSATION  ON  CONVERSATION.         237 

amusing  conversation  —  they  will  not  make  the  impression 
that  they  are  not  sincerely  Christians." 

"  Besides,"  said  Helen,  "  are  not  people  sometimes  repelled 
from  religion  by  a  want  of  cheerfulness  in  its  professors  ?  " 

"  Certainly,"  replied  her  uncle,  "  and  the  difference  is  just 
this  :  if  a  person  is  habitually  trifling  and  thoughtless,  it  is 
thought  that  they  have  no  religion  ;  if  they  are  ascetic  and 
gloomy,  it  is  attributed  to  their  religion ;  and  you  know  what 
Miss  E.  Smith  says  —  that  '  to  be  good  and  disagreeable  is 
high  treason  against  virtue.'  The  more  sincerely  and  earnest- 
ly religious  a  person  is,  the  more  important  it  is  that  they 
should  be  agreeable." 

"  But,  uncle,"  said  Helen,  "  what  does  that  text  mean  that 
we  began  with  ?     What  are  idle  words  ?  " 

"  My  dear,  if  you  will  turn  to  the  place  where  the  passage 
is  (Matt,  xii.)  and  read  the  whole  page,  you  will  see  the 
meaning  of  it.  Christ  was  not  reproving  any  body  for  trifling 
conversation  at  the  time  ;  but  for  a  very  serious  slander.  The 
Pharisees,  in  their  bitterness,  accused  him  of  being  in  league 
with  evil  spirits.  It  seems,  by  what  follows,  that  this  was  a 
charge  which  involved  an  unpardonable  sin.  They  were  not, 
indeed,  conscious  of  its  full  guilt  —  they  said  it  merely  from 
the  impulse  of  excited  and  envious  feeling  —  but  he  warns 
them  that  in  the  day  of  judgment,  God  will  hold  them  ac- 
countable for  the  full  consequences  of  all  such  language,  how- 
ever little  they  may  have  thought  of  it  at  the  time  of  uttering 
it.  The  sense  of  the  passage  I  take  to  be,  '  God  will  hold 
you  responsible  in  the  day  of  judgment  for  the  consequences 
of  all  you  have  said  in  your  most  idle  and  thoughtless  mo- 
ments.' " 

"  For  example,"  said  Helen,  "  if  one  makes  unguarded  and 


238         CONVERSATION  ON  CONVERSATION. 

unfounded  assertions  about  the  Bible,  which  excite  doubt  and 
prejudice." 

"  There  are  many  instances,"  said  her  uncle,  "  that  are  quite 
in  point.     Suppose  in  conversation,  either  under  the  influence 
of  envy  or  ill  will,  or  merely  from  love  of  talking,  you  make 
remarks  and  statements  about  another  person  which  may  be 
true  or  may  not,  —  you  do  not  stop  to  inquire,  —  your  un- 
guarded words  set  reports  in  motion,  and  unhappiness,  and 
hard  feeling,  and  loss  of  character  are  the  result.     You  spoke 
idly,  it  is  true,  but  nevertheless  you  are  held  responsible  by 
God  for  all  the  consequences  of  your  words.     So  professors 
of  religion  often  make  unguarded  remarks  about  each  other, 
which  lead  observers  to  doubt  the  truth  of  all  religion  ;  and 
they  are  responsible  for  every  such  doubt  they  excite.     Par- 
ents  and  guardians  often  allow  themselves  to  speak  of   the 
faults  and  weaknesses  of  their  ministers  in  the  presence  of 
children   and  younger  people  —  they  do  it  thoughtlessly  — 
but  in  so  doing  they  destroy  an  influence  which  might  other- 
wise have  saved  the  souls  of  their  children  ;  they  are  respon- 
sible for  it.     People  of  cultivated  minds  and  fastidious  taste 
often  allow  themselves  to  come  home  from  church,  and  criti- 
cize a  sermon,  and  unfold  all  its  weak  points  in  the  presence 
of  others  on  whom  it  may  have  made  a  very  serious  impres- 
sion.    While  the  critic  is  holding  up  the  bad  arrangement, 
and   setting  in  a  ludicrous  point  of  view  the   lame  figures, 
perhaps  the  servant  behind  his  chair,  who  was  almost  per- 
suaded to  be  a'  Christian  by  that  very  discourse,  gives  up 
his  purposes,  in  losing  his  respect  for  the  sermon  ;  this  was 
thoughtless  —  but  the  evil  is  done,  and  the  man  who  did  it  is 
responsible  for  it." 

"  I  think,"  said  Helen,  "  that  a  great  deal  of  evil  is  done  to 


CONVERSATION  ON  CONVERSATION.         239 

children  in  this  way,  by  our  not  thinking  of  what  we  are 
saying." 

"  It  seems  to  me,"  said  Miss  B.,  "  that  this  view  of  the  sub- 
ject will  reduce  us  to  silence  almost  as  much  as  the  other. 
How  is  one  ever  to  estimate  the  consequences  of  their  words, 
people  are  affected  in  so  many  different  ways  by  the  same 
thing?" 

"  I  suppose,"  said  her  uncle,  "  we  are  only  responsible  for 
such  results  as  by  carefulness  and  reflection  we  might  have 
foreseen.  It  is  not  for  ill-judged  words,  but  for  idle  words, 
that  we  are  to  be  judged  —  words  uttered  without  any  con- 
sideration at  all,  and  producing  bad  results.  If  a  person  real- 
ly anxious  to  do  right  misjudges  as  to  the  probable  effect 
of  what  he  is  about  to  say  on  others,  it  is  quite  another 
thing." 

"  But,  uncle,  will  not  such  carefulness  destroy  all  freedom 
in  conversation  ?  "  said  Helen. 

"  If  you  are  talking  with  a  beloved  friend,  Helen,  do  you 
not  use  an  instinctive  care  to  avoid  all  that  might  pain  that 
friend?" 

"  Certainly." 

"And  do  you  find  this  effort  a  restraint  on  your  enjoy- 
ment?" 

"  Certainly  not." 

"  And  you,  from  your  own  feelings,  avoid  what  is  indelicate 
and  impure  in  conversation,  and  yet  feel  it  no  restraint  ?  " 

"  Certainly." 

"  Well,  I  suppose  the  object  of  Christian  effort  should  be 
so  to  realize  the  character  of  our  Savior,  and  conform  our 
tastes  and  sympathies  to  his,  that  we  shall  instinctively  avoid 
all  in  our  conversation  that  would  be  displeasing  to  him.     A 


240  CONVERSATION    ON    CONVERSATION. 

person  habitually  indulging  jealous,  angry,  or  revengeful  feel- 
ing —  a  person  habitually  worldly  in  his  spirit  —  a  person 
allowing  himself  in  sceptical  and  unsettled  habits  of  thought, 
cannot  talk  without  doing  harm.  This  is  our  Savior's  account 
of  the  matter  in  the  verses  immediately  before  the  passage 
we  were  speaking  of — '  How  can  ye,  being  evil,  speak  good 
things  ?  for  out  of  the  abundance  of  the  heart  the  mouth 
speaketh.  A  good  man  out  of  the  good  treasure  of  his  heart 
bringeth  forth  good  things,  and  an  evil  man  out  of  the  evil 
treasure  of  his  heart  bringeth  forth  evil  things.'  The  highest 
flow  of  animal  spirits  would  never  hurry  a  pure-minded  per- 
son to-say  any  thing  indelicate  or  gross ;  and  in  the  same  man- 
ner, if  a  person  is  habitually  Christian  in  all  his  habits  of 
thought  and  feeling,  he  will  be  able  without  irksome  watchful- 
ness to  avoid  what  may  be  injurious  even  in  the  most  unre- 
strained conversation." 


HOW  DO  WE  KNOW? 


It  was  a  splendid  room.  Rich  curtains  swept  down  to  the 
floor  in  graceful  folds,  half  excluding  the  light,  and  shedding 
it  in  soft  hues  over  the  fine  old  paintings  on  the  walls,  and 
over  the  broad  mirrors  that  reflect  all  that  taste  can  accomplish 
by  the  hand  of  wealth.  Books,  the  rarest  and  most  costly, 
were  around,  in  every  form  of  gorgeous  binding  and  gilding, 
and  among  them,  glittering  in  ornament,  lay  a  magnificent 
Bible  —  a  Bible  too  beautiful  in  its  appointments,  too  showy, 
too  ornamental,  ever  to  have  been  meant  to  be  read  —  a 
Bible  which  every  visitor  should  take  up  and  exclaim,  "  What 
•a  beautiful  edition  !  what  superb  bindings  ! "  and  then  lay  it 
down  again. 

And  the  master  of  the  house  was  lounging  on  a  sofa,  look- 
ing over  a  late  review  —  for  he  was  a  man  of  leisure,  taste, 
and  reading  —  but,  then,  as  to  reading  the  Bible!  —  that 
forms,  we  suppose,  no  part  of  the  pretensions  of  a  man  of  let- 
ters. The  Bible  —  certainly  he  considered  it  a  very  respecta- 
ble book  —  a  fine  specimen  of  ancient  literature  —  an  admira- 
ble book  of  moral  precepts  ;  but,  then,  as  to  its  divine  origin, 
he  had  not  exactly  made  up  his  mind :  some  parts  appeared 
strange  and  inconsistent  to  his  reason  —  others  were  revolting 
21  (241) 


242  how  do  we  know? 

to  his  taste  :  true,  he  had  never  studied  it  very  attentively, 
yet  such  was  his  general  impression  about  it;  but,  on  the 
whole,  lie  thought  it  well  enough  to  keep  an  elegant  copy  of 
it  on  his  drawing  room  table. 

So  much  for  one  picture.     Now  for  another. 

Come  with  us  into  this  little  dark  alley,  and  up  a  flight  of 
ruinous  stairs.  It  is  a  bitter  night,  and  the  wind  and  snow 
might  drive  through  the  crevices  of  the  poor  room,  were  it 
not  that  careful  hands  have  stopped  them  with  paper  or  cloth. 
But  for  all  this  carefulness,  the  room  is  bitter  cold  —  cold 
even  with  those  few  decaying  brands  on  the  hearth,  which  that 
sorrowful  woman  is  trying  to  kindle  with  her  breath.  Do  you 
see  that  pale,  little,  thin  girl,  with  large,  bright  eyes,  who  is 
crouching  so  near  her  mother?  —  hark! — how  she  coughs! 
Now  listen. 

"  Mary,  my  clear  child,"  says  the  mother,  "  do  keep  that 
shawl  close  about  you  ;  you  are  cold,  I  know,"  and  the  woman 
shivers  as  she  speaks. 

';  No,  mother,  not  very"  replies  the  child,  again  relapsing 
into  that  hollow,  ominous  cough.  "  I  wish  you  wouldn't  make 
me  always  wear  your  shawl  when  it  is  cold,  mother." 

"  Dear  child,  you  need  it  most.  How  you  cough  to-night ! " 
replies  the  mother  ;  "it  really  don't  seem  right  for  me  to  send 
you  up  that  long,  cold  street  ;  now  your  shoes  have  grown  so 
poor,  too  ;  I  must  go  myself  after  this." 

"  O  mother,  you  must  stay  with  the  baby — what  if 
he  should  have  one  of  those  dreadful  fits  while  you  are 
gone  !  No,  I  can  go  very  well ;  I  have  got  used  to  the  cold 
now." 

"  But,  mother,  I'm  cold."  says  a  little  voice  from  the  scanty 
bed  in  the  corner  ;  "  mayn't  I  get  up  and  come  to  the  fire?" 


HOW   DO    WE   KNOW?  243 

"  Dear  child,  it  would  not  warm  you  ;  it  is  very  cold  here, 
and  I  can't  make  any  more  fire  to-night." 

"  Why  can't  you,  mother  ?  There  are  four  whole  sticks  of 
wood  in  the  box  ;  do  put  one  on,  and  let's  get  warm  once." 

"  jNo,  my  dear  little  Henry,"  says  the  mother,  soothingly, 
u  that  is  all  the  wood  mother  has,  and  I  haven't  any  money  to 
get  more." 

And  now  wakens  the  sick  baby  in  the  cradle,  and  mother 
and  daughter  are  both  for  some  time  busy  in  attempting  to 
supply  its  little  wants,  and  lulling  it  again  to  sleep. 

And  now  look  you  well  at  that  mother.  Six  months  ago 
Bhe  had  a  husband,  whose  earnings  procured  for  her  both  the 
necessaries  and  comforts  of  life  ;  her  children  were  clothed, 
fed,  and  schooled,  without  thoughts  of  hers.  But  husband- 
less,  friendless,  and  alone  in  the  heart  of  a  great,  busy  city, 
with  feeble  health,  and  only  the  precarious  resource  of  her 
needle,  she  has  gone  down  from  comfort  to  extreme  poverty. 
Look  at  her  now,  as  she  is  to-night.  She  knows  full  well 
that  the  pale,  bright-eyed  girl,  whose  hollow  cough  constantly 
rings  in  her  ears,  is  far  from  well.  She  knows  that  cold,  and 
hunger,  and  exposure  of  every  kind,  are  daily  and  surely 
wearing  away  her  life.  And  yet  what  can  she  do  ?  Poor 
soul !  how  many  times  has  she  calculated  all  her  little  resources, 
to  see  if  she  could  pay  a  doctor  and  get  medicine  for  Mary  — 
yet  all  in  vain.  She  knows  that  timely  medicine,  ease,  fresh 
air,  and  warmth  might  save  her;  but  she  knows  that  all 
these  things  are  out  of  the  question  for  her.  She  feels,  too, 
as  a  mother  would  feel,  when  she  sees  her  once  rosy,  happy 
little  boy  becoming  pale,  and  anxious,  and  fretful ;  and  even 
when  he  teases  her  most,  she  only  stops  her  work  a  moment, 
and  strokes  his  little  thin  cheeks,  and  thinks  what  a  laughing, 


2-14  HOW    DO    AVE    KNOW? 

happy  little  fellow  lie  once  was,  till  she  has  not  a  heart  to 
reprove  him.  And  all  this  day  she  has  toiled  with  a  sick  and 
fretful  baby  in  her  lap,  and  her  little  shivering,  hungry  boy  at 
her  side,  whom  Mary's  patient  artifices  cannot  always  keep 
quiet ;  she  has  toiled  over  the  last  piece  of  work  which  she  can 
procure  from  the  shop,  for  the  man  has  told  her  that  after  this 
he  can  furnish  no  more ;  and  the  little  money  that  is  to  come 
from  this  is  already  portioned  out  in  her  own  mind,  and  after 
that  she  has  no  human  prospect  of  support. 

But  yet  that  woman's  face  is  patient,  quiet,  firm.  Nay,  you 
may  even  see  in  her  suffering  eye  something  like  peace.  And 
whence  comes  it  ?     I  will  tell  you. 

There  is  a  Bible  in  that  room,  as  well  as  in  the  rich  man's 
apartment.  Not  splendidly  bound,  to  be  sure,  but  faithfully 
read  —  a  plain,  homely,  much-worn  book. 

Hearken  now  while  she  says  to  her  children,  "  Listen  to 
me,  dear  children,  and  I  will  read  you  something  out  of  this 
book.  '  Let  not  your  heart  be  troubled ;  in  my  Father's 
house  are  many  mansions.'  So  you  see,  my  children,  we  shall 
not  always  live  in  this  little,  cold,  dark  room.  Jesus  Christ 
has  promised  to  take  us  to  a  better  home." 

"  Shall  we  be  warm  there  all  day  ? "  says  the  little  boy, 
earnestly  ;  "  and  shall  we  have  enough  to  eat  ?" 

"  Yes,  dear  child,"  says  the  mother ;  "  listen  to  what  the 
Bible  says :  *  They  shall  hunger  no  more,  neither  thirst  any 
more  ;  for  the  Lamb  which  is  in  the  midst  of  the  throne  shall 
feed  them  ;  and  God  shall  wipe  away  all  tears  from  their 
eyes.'  " 

"  I  am  glad  of  that,"  said  little  Mary,  "  for,  mother,  I  never 
can  bear  to  see  you  cry." 


HOW   DO    WE    KNOW?  245 

"But,  mother,"  says  little  Henry,  "won't  God  send  us 
something  to  eat  to-morrow  ?  " 

"  See,"  says  the  mother,  "  what  the  Bible  says  :  <  Seek  yo 
not  what  ye  shall  eat,  nor  what  ye  shall  drink,  neither  be  of 
anxious  mind.  For  your  Father  knoweth  that  ye  have  need 
of  these  things.'" 

"  But,  mother,"  says  little  Mary,  "  if  God  is  our  Father, 
and  loves  us,  what  does  he  let  us  be  so  poor  for  ? " 

"  Nay,"  says  the  mother,  "  our  dear  Lord  Jesus  Christ  was 
as  poor  as  we  are,  and  God  certainly  loved  him." 

"  Was  he,  mother  ?  " 

"  Yes,  children  ;  you  remember  how  he  said,  '  The  Son  of 
man  hath  not  where  to  lay  his  head.'  And  it  tells  us  more 
than  once  that  Jesus  was  hungry  when  there  was  none  to  give 
him  food." 

"  0  mother,  what  should  we  do  without  the  Bible  ?  "  says 
Jlary. 

Now,  if  the  rich  man,  who  had  not  yet  made  up  his  mind 
what  to  think  of  the  Bible,  should  visit  this  poor  woman,  and 
ask  her  on  what  she  grounded  her  belief  of  its  truth,  what 
could  she  answer  ?  Could  she  give  the  arguments  from 
miracles  and  prophecy  ?  Could  she  account  for  all  tSie 
changes  which  might  have  taken  place  in  it  through  transla- 
tors and  copyists,  and  prove  that  we  have  a  genuine  and  un- 
corrupted  version  ?  Not  she !  But  how,  then,  does  she 
know  that  it  is  true  ?  How,  say  you  ?  How  does  she  know 
that  she  has  warm  life  blood  in  her  heart  ?  How  docs  she 
know  that  there  is  such  a  thing  as  air  and  sunshine  ?  She 
does  not  believe  these  things  —  she  knows  them  ;  and  in  like 
manner,  with  a  deep  heart  consciousness,  she  is  certain  that 
21  * 


246  HOW   DO    WE   KNOW  ? 

the  words  of  her  Bible  are  truth  and  life.  Is  it  by  reasoning 
that  the  frightened  child,  bewildered  in  the  dark,  knows  its 
mother's  voice  ?  No  !  Nor  is  it  only  by  reasoning  that  the 
forlorn  and  distressed  human  heart  knows  the  voice  of  its 
Savior,  and  is  still. 


WHICH  IS  THE  LIBEEAL  MAN? 


*WA.\WW\AA« 


It  was  a  beaming  and  beautiful  summer  morning,  and  the 
little  town  of  V.  was  alive  with  all  the  hurry  and  motion  of  a 
college  commencement.  Eows  of  carriages  lined  the  rural 
streets,  and  groups  of  well-dressed  auditors  were  thronging 
to  the  hall  of  exhibition.     All  was  gayety  and  animation. 

And  among  them  aU  what  heart  beat  higher  with  hope  and 
gratified  ambition  than  that  of  James  Stanton  ?  Young,  buoy- 
ant, prepossessing  in  person  and  manners,  he  was  this  day,  in 
the  presence  of  all  the  world,  to  carry  off  the  highest  palm  of 
scholarship  in  his  institution,  and  to  receive,  on  the  threshold  of 
the  great  world,  the  utmost  that  youthful  ambition  can  ask  be- 
fore it  enters  the  arena  of  actual  life.  Did  not  his  pulse  flutter, 
and  his  heart  beat  thick,  when  he  heard  himself  announced  in 
the  crowded  house  as  the  valedictorian  of  the  day  ?  when  he 
saw  aged  men,  and  fair,  youthful  faces,  ruddy  childhood,  and 
sober,  calculating  manhood  alike  bending  in  hushed  and  eager 
curiosity,  to  listen  to  his  words  ?  Nay,  did  not  his  heart  rise 
in  his  throat  as  he  caught  the  gleam  of  his  father's  eye,  while, 
bending  forward  on  his  staff,  with  white,  reverend  locks  falling 
about  his  face,  he  listened  to  the  voice  of  his  pride  —  his  first 
born  ?     And  did  he  not  see  the  glistening  tears  in  his  moth- 

(247) 


248  WHICH    IS    THE    LIBERAL    MAN? 

er's  eye,  as  with  rapt  ear  she  hung  upon  his  every  word  ?  Ah, 
the  young  man's  first  triumph!  When,  full  of  confidence  and 
hope,  he  enters  the  field  of  life,  all  his  white  glistening  as 
yet  unsoiled  by  the  dust  of  the  combat,  the  unproved  world 
turning  towards  him  with  flatteries  and  promises  in  both 
hands,  what  other  triumph  does  life  give  so  fresh,  so  full,  so 
replete  with  hope  and  joy  ?  So  felt  James  Stanton  this  day, 
when  he  heard  his  father  congratulated  on  having  a  son  of 
such  promise ;  when  old  men,  revered  for  talents  and  worth, 
shook  hands  with  him,  and  bade  him  warmly  God  speed  in 
the  course  of  life  ;  when  bright  eyes  cast  glances  of  favor,  and 
from  among  the  fairest  were  overheard  whispers  of  admi- 
ration. 

"  Your  son  is  designed  for  the  bar,  I  trust,"  said  the  venera- 
ble Judge  L.  to  the  father  of  James,  at  the  commencement 
dinner.  ''I  have  seldom  seen  a  turn  of  mind  better  fitted  for 
success  in  the  legal  profession.  And  then  his  voice  !  his  man- 
ner !  let  him  go  to  the  bar,  sir,  and  I  prophesy  that  he  will 
yet  outdo  us  all." 

And  this  was  said  in  James's  hearing,  and  by  one  whose 
commendation  was  not  often  so  warmly  called  forth.  It  was 
not  in  auy  young  heart  not  to  beat  quicker  at  such  prospects. 
Honor,  station,  wealth,  political  ambition,  all  seemed  to  offer 
themselves  to  his  grasp  ;  but  long  ere  this,  in  the  solitude  of 
retirement,  in  the  stillness  of  prayer  and  self-examination,  the 
young  graduate  had  vowed  himself  to  a  different  destiny ;  and 
if  we  may  listen  to  a  conversation,  a  few  evenings  after  com- 
mencement, with  a  classmate,  we  shall  learn  more  of  the  se- 
cret workings  of  his  mind. 

"  And  so,  Stanton,"  said  George  Lennox  to  him,  as  they  sat 
by  their  evening  fireside,  "  you  have  not  yet  decided  whether 
to  accept  Judge  L.'s  offer  or  not." 


WHICrf    IS    THE    LIBERAL    MAN?  249 

"  I  have  decided  that  matter  long  ago,"  said  James. 

"  So,  then,  you  choose  the  ministry." 

"  Yes." 

"  Well,  for  my  part,"  replied  George  Lennox,  "  I  choose  the 
law.  There  must  be  Christians,  you  know,  in  every  voca- 
tion 1  the  law  seems  to  suit  my  turn  of  mind.  I  trust  it  will 
be  my  effort  to  live  as  becomes  a  Christian,  whatever  be  my 
calling." 

"  I  trust  so,"  replied  James. 

"  But  really,  Stanton,"  added  the  other,  after  some  thought, 
"  it  seems  a  pity  to  cast  away  such  prospects  as  open  before 
you.  You  know  your  tuition  is  offered  gratis  ;  and  then  the 
patronage  of  Judge  L.,  and  such  influences  as  he  can  com- 
mand to  secure  your  success  —  pray,  do  not  these  things  seem 
to  you  like  a  providential  indication  that  the  law  is  to  be  your 
profession  ?  Besides,  here  in  these  New  England  States,  the 
ministry  is  overflowed  already  —  ministers  enough,  and  too 
many,  if  one  may  judge  by  the  number  of  applicants  for  every 
unoccupied  place." 

"  Nay,"  replied  James,  "  my  place  is  not  here.  I  know, 
if  all  accounts  are  true,  that  my  profession  is  not  overflowed 
in  our  Western  States,  and  there  I  mean  to  go." 

"  And  is  it  possible  that  you  can  contemplate  such  an  entire 
sacrifice  of  your  talents,  your  manners,  your  literary  and  sci- 
entific tastes,  your  capabilities  for  refined  society,  as  to  bury 
yourself  in  a  log  cabin  in  one  of  our  new  states  ?  You  will 
never  be  appreciated  there  ;  your  privations  and  sacrifices  will 
be  entirely  disregarded,  and  you  placed  on  a  level  with  the 
coarsest  and  most  uneducated  sectaries.  I  really  do  not  think 
you  are  called  to  this." 

"  Who,  then,  is  called  ?  "  replied  James. 


250  WHICH    IS    THE    LIBERAL    MAN  ? 

"  Why,  men  with  much  less  of  all  these  good  things  —  men 
with  real  coarse,  substantial,  backwoods  furniture  in  their 
minds,  who  will  not  appreciate,  and  of  course  not  feel,  the 
want  of  all  the  refinements  and  comforts  which  you  must  sac- 
rifice." 

"  And  are  there  enough  such  men  ready  to  meet  the  emer- 
gencies in  our  western  world,  so  that  no  others  need  be  called 
upon  ?  "  replied  James.  "  Men  of  the  class  you  speak  of  may 
do  better  than  I  ;  but,  if  after  all  their  efforts  I  still  am  need- 
ed, and  can  work  well,  ought  I  not  to  go  ?  Must  those  only 
be  drafted  for  religious  enterprises  to  whom  they  involve  no 
sacrifice  ?  " 

"  Well,  for  my  part,"  replied  the  other, "  I  trust  I  am  willing 
to  do  any  thing  that  is  my  duty ;  yet  I  never  could  feel  it  to 
be  my  duty  to  bury  myself  in  a  new  state,  among  stumps  and 
log  cabins.  My  mind  would  rust  itself  out ;  and,  missing  the 
stimulus  of  such  society  as  I  have  been  accustomed  to,  I 
should  run  down  completely,  and  be  useless  in  body  and  in 
mind." 

"  If  you  feel  so,  it  would  be  so,"  replied  James.  "  If  the  work 
there  to  be  done  would  not  be  stimulus  and  excitement 
enough  to  compensate  for  the  absence  of  all  other  stimulus,  — 
if  the  business  of  the  ministry,  the  saving  of  human  souls,  is 
not  the  one  all-absorbing  purpose,  and  desire,  and  impulse  of 
the  whole  being,  —  then  woe  to  the  man  who  goes  to  preach 
the  gospel  where  there  is  nothing  but  human  souls  to  be  gained 
by  it." 

"  Well,  Stanton,"  replied  the  other,  after  a  pause  of  some 
seriousness,  "  I  cannot  say  that  I  have  attained  to  this  yet. 
I  don't  know  but  I  might  be  brought  to  it ;  but  at  present  I 
must  confess  it  is  not  so.     We  ought  not  to  rush  into  a  state 


WHICH    I?    THE    LIBERAL    MAN?  251 

and  employment  which  Ave  have  not  the  moral  fortitude  to 
sustain  well.  In  short,  for  myself,  I  may  make  a  respectable, 
and,  I  trust,  not  useless  man  in  the  law,  when  I  could  do 
nothing  in  the  circumstances  which  you  choose.  However, 
I  respect  your  feelings,  and  heartily  wish  that  I  could  share 
them  myself." 

A  few  days  after  this  conversation  the  young  friends  parted 
for  their  several  destinations  —  the  one  to  a  law  school,  the 
other  to  a  theological  seminary. 


It  was  many  years  after  this  that  a  middle-aged  man,  of 
somewhat  threadbare  appearance  and  restricted  travelling  con- 
veniences, was  seen  carefully  tying  his  horse  at  the  outer  en- 
closure of  an  elegant  mansion  in  the  town  of  ,  in  one  of 

our  Western  States  ;  which  being  done,  he  eyed  the  house  rather 
inquisitively,  as  people  sometimes  do  when  they  are  doubtful  as 
to  the  question  of  entering  or  not  entering.  The  house  belonged 
to  George  Lennox,  Esq.,  a  lawyer  reputed  to  be  doing  a  more 
extensive  business  than  any  other  in  the  state,  and  the  thread- 
bare gentleman  who  plies  the  knocker  at  the  front  door  is  the 
Reverend  Mr.  Stanton,  a  name  widely  spread  in  the  ecclesias- 
tical circles  of  the  land.  The  door  opens,  and  the  old  college 
acquaintances  meet  with  a  cordial  grasp  of  the  hand,  and  Mr. 
Stanton  soon  finds  himself  pressed  to  the  most  comfortable 
accommodations  in  the  warm  parlor  of  his  friend ;  and  even 
the  slight  uneasiness  which  the  wisest  are  not  always  exempt 
from,  when  conscious  of  a  little  shabbiness  in  exterior,  was 
entirely  dissipated  by  the  evident  cordiality  of  his  reception. 
Since  the  conversation  we  have  alluded  to,  the  two  friends 
pursued  their  separate  courses  with  but  few  opportunities  of 


252  WHICH    IS    THE    LIBERAL    MAN? 

personal  intercourse.  In  the  true  zeal  of  the  missionary, 
James  Stanton  had  thrown  himself  into  the  field,  where  it 
seemed  hardest  and  darkest,  and  where  labor  seemed  most 
needed.  In  neighborhoods  without  churches,  without  school 
houses,  without  settled  roads,  among  a  population  of  disorgan- 
ized and  heterogeneous  material,  he  had  exhorted  from  house 
to  house,  labored  individually  with  one  after  another,  till  he 
had,  in  place  after  place,  brought  together  the  elements  of  a 
Christian  church.  Far  from  all  ordinances,  means  of  grace, 
or  Christian  brotherhood,  or  cooperation,  he  had  seemed  to 
himself  to  be  merely  the  lonely,  solitary  "  voice  of  one  crying  in 
the  wilderness,"  as  unassisted,  and,  to  human  view,  as  power- 
less. With  poverty,  and  cold,  and  physical  fatigue  he  had  daily 
been  familiar ;  and  where  no  vehicle  could  penetrate  the  miry 
depths  of  the  forest,  where  it  was  impracticable  even  to  guide 
a  horse,  he  had  walked  miles  and  miles,  through  mud  and 
rain,  to  preach.  AVith  a  wife  in  delicate  health,  and  a  young 
and  growing  family,  he  had  more  than  once  seen  the  year 
when  fifty  dollars  was  the  whole  amount  of  money  that  had 
passed  through  his  hands ;  and  the  whole  of  the  rest  of  his 
support  had  come  in  disconnected  contributions  from  one  and 
another  of  his  people.  He  had  lived  without  books,  without 
newspapers,  except  as  he  had  found  them  by  chance  snatches 
here  and  there,*  and  felt,  as  one  so  circumstanced  only  can 
feel,  the  difficulty  of  maintaining  intellectual  vigor  and  energy 
in  default  of  all  those  stimulants  to  which  cultivated  minds  in 
more  favorable  circumstances  are  so  much  indebted.  At  the 
time  that  he  is  now  introduced  to  the  reader,  he  had  been  re- 
cently made  pastor  in  one  of  the  most  important  settlements 

*  These  particulars  the  writer  heard  stated  personally  as  a  part  of  the 
experience  of  one  of  the  most  devoted  ministers  of  Ohio. 


WHICH   IS    THE    LIBERAL    MAN  ?  253 

in  the  state,  and  among  those  who,  so  far  as  worldly  circum- 
stances were  concerned,  were  able  to  afford  him  a  competent 
support.  But  among  communities  like  those  at  the  west,  set- 
tled for  expressly  money-making  purposes,  and  by  those  who 
have  for  years  been  taught  the  lesson  to  save,  and  have  scarce- 
ly begun  to  feel  the  duty  to  give,  a  minister,  however  labori- 
ous, however  eloquent  and  successful,  may  often  feel  the 
most  serious  embarrassments  of  poverty.  Too  often  is  his 
salary  regarded  as  a  charity  which  may  be  given  or  retrenched 
to  suit  every  emergency  of  the  times,  and  his  family  expendi- 
tures watched  with  a  jealous  and  censorious  eye. 

On  the  other  hand,  George  Lennox,  the  lawyer,  had  by  his 
talents  and  efficiency  placed  himself  at  the  head  of  his  pro- 
fession, and  was  realizing  an  income  which  brought  all  the 
comforts  and  elegances  of  life  within  his  reach.  He  was  a 
member  of  the  Christian  church  in  the  place  where  he  lived, 
irreproachable  in  life  and  conduct.  From  natural  generosity 
of  disposition,  seconded  by  principle,  he  was  a  liberal  contrib- 
utor to  all  religious  and  benevolent  enterprises,  and  was  often 
quoted  and  referred  to  as  an  example  in  good  works.  Sur- 
rounded by  an  affectionate  and  growing  family,  with  ample 
means  for  providing  in  the  best  manner  both  for  their  physical 
and  mental  development,  he  justly  regarded  himself  as  a  hap- 
py man,  and  was  well  satisfied  with  the  world  he  lived  in. 

Now,  there  is  nothing  more  trying  to  the  Christianity  or  the 
philosophy  which  teaches  the  vanity  of  riches  than  a  few 
hours'  domestication  in  a  family  where  wealth  is  employed,  not 
for  purposes  of  ostentation,  but  for  the  perfecting  of  home 
comfort  and  the  gratification  of  refined  intellectual  tastes ; 
and  as  Mr.  Stanton  leaned  back,  slippered  and  gowned,  in  one 
22 


I 

254  WHICH    IS    THE    LIBERAL    MAN  ? 

of  the  easiest  of  chairs,  and  began  to  look  over  periodicals 
and  valuable  new  books  from  which  he  had  long  been  ex- 
cluded, he  might  be  forgiven  for  giving  a  half  sigh  to  the 
reflection  that  he  could  never  be  a  rich  man.  "  Have  you 
read  this  review  ?  "  said  his  companion,  handing  him  one  of  the 
leading  periodicals  of  the  day  across  the  table. 

"  I  seldom  see  reviews,"  said  Mr.  Stanton,  taking  it. 
"  You  lose  a  great  deal,"  replied  the  other,  <k  if  you  have 
not  seen  those  by  this  author  —  altogether  the  ablest  series 
of  literary  efforts  in  our  time.  You  clerical  gentlemen  ought 
not  to  sacrifice  your  literary  tastes  entirely  to  your  profes- 
sional cares.  A  moderate  attention  to  current  literature  lib- 
eralizes the  mind,  and  gives  influence  that  you  could  not 
otherwise  acquire." 

"  Literary  taste  is  an  expensive  thing  to  a  minister,"  said 
Mr.  Stanton,  smiling:  "for  the  mind,  as  well  as  the  body, 
we  must  forego  all  luxuries,  and  confine  ourselves  simply  to 
necessaries." 

"  I  would  always  indulge  myself  with  books  and  periodi- 
cals, even  if  I  had  to  scrimp  elsewhere,"  said  Mr.  Lennox ; 
and  he  spoke  of  scrimping  with  all  the  serious  good  faith  with 
which  people  of  two  or  three  thousand  a  year  usually  speak 
of  these  matters. 

Mr.  Stanton  smiled,  and  waived  the  subject,  wondering 
mentally  where  his  friend  would  find  an  elsewhere  to  scrimp, 
if  he  had  the  management  of  his  concerns.  The  conversa- 
tion gradually  flowed  back  to  college  days  and  scenes,  and 
the  friends  amused  themselves  with  tracing  the  history  of  their 
various  classmates. 

"  And   so   Alsop   is   in   the    Senate,"   said    Mr.    Stanton. 


WHICH    IS    THE    LIBERAL    MAN?  255 

"  Strange  !  We  did  not  at  all  expect  it  of  him.  But  do  you 
know  any  thing  of  George  Bush  ?  " 

"  0,  yes,"  replied  the  other ;  "  he  went  into  mercantile  life, 
and  the  last  I  heard  he  had  turned  a  speculation  worth  thirty 
thousand  —  a  shrewd  fellow.  I  always  knew  he  would  make 
his  way  in  the  world." 

"  But  what  has  become  of  Langdon  ?  " 

"  O,  he  is  doing  well ;  he  is  professor  of  languages  in 

College,  and  I  hear  he  has  lately  issued  a  Latin  Grammar  that 
promises  to  have  quite  a  run." 

"  And  Smithson  ?  " 

"  Smithson  has  an  office  at  "Washington,  and  was  there 
living  in  great  style  the  last  time  I  saw  him." 

It  may  be  questioned  whether  the  minister  sank  to  sleep 
that  night,  amid  the  many  comfortable  provisions  of  his 
friend's  guest  chamber,  without  rebuking  in  his  heart  a  cer- 
tain rising  of  regret  that  he  had  turned  his  back  on  all  the 
honors,  and  distinctions,  and  comforts  which  lay  around  the 
path  of  others,  who  had  not,  in  the  opening  of  the  race, 
half  the  advantages  of  himself.  "  See,"  said  the  insidious 
voice  — "  what  have  you  gained  ?  See  your  early  friends 
surrounded  by  riches  and  comfort,  while  you  are  pinched 
and  harassed  by  poverty.  Have  they  not,  many  of  them, 
as  good  a  hope  of  heaven  as  you  have,  and  all  this  besides  ? 
Could  you  not  have  lived  easier,  and  been  a  good  man  after 
all  ? "  The  reflection  was  only  silenced  by  remembering 
that  the  only  Being  who  ever  had  the  perfect  power  of 
choosing  his  worldly  condition,  chose,  of  his  own  accord,  a 
poverty  deeper  than  that  of  any  of  his  servants.  Had  Christ 
consented  to  be  rich,  what  check  could  there  have  been  to 
the  desire  of  it  among  his  followers  ?     But  he  chose  to  stoop 


256  WHICH    IS    THE    LIBERAL    MAN? 

so  low  that  none  could  be  lower  ;  and  that  in  extremest  want 
none  could  ever  say,  "  I  am  poorer  than  was  my  Savior  and 
God." 

The  friends  at  parting  the  next  morning  shook  hands 
warmly,  and  promised  a  frequent  renewal  of  their  resumed 
intercourse.  Nor  was  the  bill  for  twenty  dollars,  which  the 
minister  found  in  his  hand,  at  all  an  unacceptable  addition 
to  the  pleasures  of  his  visit ;  and  though  the  November  wind 
whistled  keenly  through  a  dull,  comfortless  sky,  he  turned  his 
horse's  head  homeward  with  a  lightened  heart. 


"  Mother's  sick,  and  Tm  a-keeping  house  ! "  said  a  little 
flaxen-headed  girl,  in  all  the  importance  of  seven  years,  as 
her  father  entered  the  dwelling. 

"  Your  mother  sick  !  what's  the  matter  ? "  inquired  Mr. 
Stanton. 

"  She  caught  cold  washing,  yesterday,  while  you  were 
cone  ; "  and  when  the  minister  stood  by  the  bedside  of  his 
sick  wife,  saw  her  flushed  face,  and  felt  her  feverish  pulse, 
he  felt  seriously  alarmed.  She  had  scarcely  recovered  from 
a  dangerous  fever  when  he  left  home,  and  with  reason  he 
dreaded  a  relapse. 

"  My  dear,  why  have  you  done  so  ?  "  was  the  first  expostu- 
lation ;  "  why  did  you  not  send  for  old  Agnes  to  do  your  wash- 
ing, as  I  told  you." 

"  I  felt  so  well,  I  thought  I  was  quite  able,"  was  the  reply ; 
"  and  you  know  it  will  take  all  the  money  we  have  now  in 
hand  to  get  the  children's  shoes  before  cold  weather  comes, 
and  nobody  knows  when  we  shall  have  any  more." 

"  Well,  Mary,  comfort  your  heart  as  to  that,     I  have  had 


WHICH    IS    THE    LIBERAL    MAN?  257 

a  present  to-day  of  twenty  dollars  —  that  will  last  us  some 
time.  God  always  provides  when  need  is  greatest."  And  so, 
after  administering  a  little  to  the  comfort  of  his  wife,  the 
minister  addressed  himself  to  the  business  of  cooking  some- 
thing for  dinner  for  himself  and  his  little  hungry  flock. 

"  There  is  no  bread  in  the  house,"  he  exclaimed,  after  a 
survey  of  the  ways  and  means  at  his  disposal. 

"  I  must  try  and  sit  up  long  enough  to  make  some,"  said 
his  wife  faintly. 

"  You  must  try  to  be  quiet,"  replied  the  husband.  "  We 
can  do  very  well  on  potatoes.  But  yet,"  he  added,  "  I  think 
if  I  bring  the  things  to  your  bedside,  and  you  show  me  how 
to  mix  them,  I  could  make  some  bread." 

A  burst  of  laughter  from  the  }roung  fry  chorused  his  pro- 
posal ;  nevertheless,  as  Mr.  Stanton  was  a  man  of  decided 
genius,  by  help  of  much  showing,  and  of  strong  arms  and 
good  will,  the  feat  was  at  length  accomplished  in  no  unwork- 
manlike manner  ;  and  while  the  bread  was  put  down  to  the 
tire  to  rise,  and  the  potatoes  were  baking  in  the  oven,  Mr. 
Stanton  having  enjoined  silence  on  his  noisy  troop,  sat  down, 
pencil  in  hand,  by  his  wife's  bed,  to  prepare  a  sermon. 

We  would  that  those  ministers  who  feel  that  they  cannot 
compose  without  a  study,  and  that  the  airiest  and  pleasantest 
room  in  the  house,  where  the  floor  is  guarded  by  the  thick 
carpet,  the  light  carefully  relieved  by  curtains,  where  papers 
are  filed  and  arranged  neatly  in  conveniences  purposely  ad- 
justed, with  books  of  reference  standing  invitingly  around, 
could  once  figure  to  themselves  the  process  of  composing  a 
sermon  in  circumstances  such  as  we  have  painted.  Mr. 
Stanton  had  written  his  text,  and  jotted  down  something  of 
an  introduction,  when  a  circumstance  occurred  which  is 
22* 


258  WHICH   IS    THE   LIBERAL    MAN? 

almost  inevitable  in  situations  where  a  person  has  any  thing 
else  to  attend  to  —  the  baby  ivoke.  The  little  interloper  was 
to  be  tied  into  a  chair,  while  the  flaxen-headed  young  house- 
keeper was  now  installed  into  the  office  of  waiter  in  ordinary 
to  her  majesty,  and  by  shaking  a  newspaper  before  her  face, 
plying  a  rattle,  or  other  arts  known  only  to  the  initiate,  to  pre- 
vent her  from  indulging  in  any  unpleasant  demonstrations, 
while  Mr.  Stanton  proceeded  with  his  train  of  thought. 

"  Papa,  papa !  the  teakettle !  only  look ! "  cried  all  the  younger 
ones,  just  as  he  was  again  beginning  to  abstract  his  mind. 

Mr.  Stanton  rose,  and  adapting  part  of  his  sermon  paper 
to  the  handle  of  the  teakettle,  poured  the  boiling  water  on 
some  herb  drink  for  his  wife,  and  then  recommenced. 

"  I  sha'n't  have  much  of  a  sermon  ! "  he  soliloquized,  as  his 
youngest  but  one,  with  the  ingenuity  common  to  children  of 
her  standing,  had  contrived  to  tip  herself  over  in  her  chair, 
and  cut  her  under  lip,  which  for  the  time  being  threw  the 
whole  settlement  into  commotion  ;  and  this  conviction  was 
strengthened  by  finding  that  it  was  now  time  to  give  the  chil- 
dren their  dinner. 

"  I  fear  Mrs.  Stanton  is  imprudent  in  exerting  herself,"  said 
the  medical  man  to  the  husband,  as  he  examined  her  symp- 
toms. 

"  I  know  she  is,"  replied  her  husband,  "  but  I  cannot  keep 
her  from  it." 

"It  is  absolutely  indispensable  that  she  should  rest  and 
keep  her  mind  easy,"  said  the  doctor. 

"  Rest  and  keep  easy" — how  easily  the  words  are  said! 
yet  how  they  fall  on  the  ear  of  a  mother,  who  knows  that  her 
whole  flock  have  not  yet  a  garment  prepared  for  winter,  that 
hiring  assistance  is  out  of  the  question,  and  that  the  work  must 


WHICH    IS    THE    LIBERAL    MAN  ?  259 

all  be  done  by  herself — who  sees  that  while  she  is  sick  her 
husband  is  perplexed,  and  kept  from  his  appropriate  duties, 
and  her  children,  despite  his  well-meant  efforts,  suffering  for 
the  want  of  those  attentions  that  only  a  mother  can  give. 
"Will  not  any  mother,  so  tried,  rise  from  her  sick  bed  before 
she  feels  able,  to  be  again  prostrated  by  over-exertion,  until 
the  vigor  of  the  constitution  year  by  year  declines,  and  she 
sinks  into  an  early  grave  ?  Yet  this  is  the  true  history  of 
many  a  wife  and  mother,  who,  in  consenting  to  share  the 
privations  of  a  western  minister,  has  as  truly  sacrificed  her 
life  as  did  ever  martyr  on  heathen  shores.  The  graves  of 
Harriet  Newell  and  Mrs.  Judson  are  hallowed  as  the  shrines 
of  saints,  and  their  memory  made  as  a  watchword  among 
Christians ;  yet  the  western  valley  is  full  of  green  and  name- 
less graves,  where  patient,  long-enduring  wives  and  mothers 
have  lain  down,  worn  out  by  the  privations  of  as  severe  a  mis- 
sionary field,  and  "  no  man  knoweth  the  place  of  their  sepul- 
chre." 

The  crisp  air  of  a  November  evening  was  enlivened  by  the 
fire  that  blazed  merrily  in  the  bar  room  of  the  tavern  in  L., 
while  a  more  than  usual  number  crowded  about  the  hearth, 
owing  to  the  session  of  the  county  court  in  that  place. 

"  Mr.  Lennox  is  a  pretty  smart  lawyer,"  began  an  old  gen- 
tleman, who  sat  in  one  of  the  corners,  in  the  half  interrogative 
tone  which  indicated  a  wish  to  start  conversation." 

"  Yes,  sir,  no  mistake  about  that,"  was  the  reply ;  "  does 
the  largest  business  in  the  state  —  very  smart  man,  sir,  and 
honest  —  a  church  member  too,  and  one  of  the  tallest  kinds 
of  Christians  they  say  —  gives  more  money  for  building  meet- 
ing houses,  and  all  sorts  of  religious  concerns,  than  any  man 
around." 


260  "WHICH   IS    THE    LIBERAL    MAN? 

"  Well,  he  can  afford  it,"  said  a  man  with  a  thin,  care-taking 
visage,  and  a  nervous,  anxious  twitch  of  the  hand,  as  if  it 
were  his  constant  effort  to  hold  on  to  something — "he  can 
afford  it,  for  he  makes  money  hand  over  hand.  It  is  not  every 
body  can  afford  to  do  as  he  does." 

A  sly  look  of  intelligence  pervaded  the  company ;  for  the 
speaker,  one  of  the  most  substantial  householders  in  the  set- 
tlement, was  always  taken  with  distressing  symptoms  of  pov- 
erty and  destitution  when  any  allusion  to  public  or  religious 
charity  was  made. 

"  Mr.  C.  is  thinking  about  parish  matters,"  said  a  wicked 
wag  of  the  company ;  "  you  see,  sir,  our  minister  urged  pretty 
hard  last  Sunday  to  have  his  salary  paid  up.  He  has  had 
sickness  in  his  family,  and  nothing  on  hand  for  winter  ex- 
penses." 

"  I  don't  think  Mr.  Stanton  is  judicious  in  making  such 
public  statements,"  said  the  former  speaker,  nervously  ;  "  he 
ought  to  consult  his  friends  privately,  and  not  bring  temporali- 
ties into  the  pulpit." 

"  That  is  to  say,  starve  decently,  and  make  no  fuss,"  replied 
the  other. 

"  Nonsense  !  Who  talks  of  starving,  when  provision  is  as 
plenty  as  blackberries  ?  I  tell  you  I  understand  this  matter, 
and  know  how  little  a  man  can  get  along  with.  I've  tried  it 
myself.  When  I  first  set  out  in  life,  my  wife  and  I  had  not  a 
pair  of  andirons  or  a  shovel  and  tongs  for  two  or  three  years, 
and  we  never  thought  of  complaining.  The  times  are  hard. 
We  are  all  losing,  and  must  get  along  as  we  can  ;  and  Mr. 
Stanton  must  bear  some  rubs  as  well  as  the  rest  of  us." 

"It  appears  to  me,  Mr.  C,"  said  the  waggish  gentleman 
aforesaid,  "  that  if  you'd  put  Mr.  Stanton  into  your  good  brick 


AVIIICH    IS    THE    LIBEKAL    MAN?  261 

house,  and  give  him  your  furniture  and  income,  he  would  be 
well  satisfied  to  rub  along  as  you  do." 

"  Mr.  Stanton  isn't  so  careful  in  his  expenses  as  he  might 
be,"  said  Mr.  C,  petulantly,  disregarding  the  idea  started  by 
his  neighbor  ;  "  he  buys  things  /  should  not  think  of  buying. 
Now,  I  was  in  his  house  the  other  day,  and  he  had  just  given 
three  dollars  for  a  single  book." 

"  Perhaps  it  was  a  book  he  needed  in  his  studies,"  suggested 
the  old  gentleman  who  began  the  conversation. 

"  What's  the  use  of  book  larnin'  to  a  minister,  if  he's  got 
the  real  spirit  in  him  ?  "  chimed  in  a  rough-looking  man  in 
the  farthest  corner ;  "  only  wish  you  could  have  heard  Elder 
North  give  it  off —  there  was  a  real  genuine  preacher  for  you, 
couldn't  even  read  his  text  in  the  Bible  ;  yet,  sir,  he  would 
get  up  and  reel  it  off  as  smooth  and  fast  as  the  best  of  them, 
that  come  out  of  the  colleges.  My  notion  is,  it's  the  spirit 
that's  the  thing,  after  all." 

Several  of  the  auditors  seemed  inclined  to  express  their  ap- 
probation of  this  doctrine,  though  some  remarked  that  Mr. 
Stanton  was  a  smarter  preacher  than  Elder  North,  for  all  his 
book  larnin'. 

Some  of  the  more  intelligent  of  the  circle  here  exchanged 
smiles,  but  declined  entering  the  lists  in  favor  of  "larnin'." 

"  O,  for  my  part,"  resumed  Mr.  C,  "  I  am  for  having  a  min- 
ister study,  and  have  books  and  all  that,  if  he  can  afford  it ; 
but  in  hard  times  like  these,  books  are  neither  meat,  drink, 
nor  fire  ;  and  I  know  I  can't  afford  them.  Now,  I'm  as  will- 
ing to  contribute  my  part  to  the  minister's  salary,  and  every 
other  charity,  as  any  body,  when  I  can  get  money  to  do  it ; 
but  in  these  times  I  can't  get  it." 

The  elderly  gentleman  here  interrupted  the  conversation  by 


262  WHICH    IS    THE    LIBERAL    MAN? 

saying,  abruptly,  "lam  a  townsman  of  Mr.  Stanton's,  and  it 
is  my  opinion  that  he  lias  impoverished  himself  by  giving  in 
religious  charity."  * 

"  Giving  in  charity  I  "  exclaimed  several  voices  ;  "  where 
did  he  ever  get  any  thing  to  give  ?  " 

"  Yet  I  think  I  speak  within  bounds,"  said  the  old  gentle- 
man, "  when  I  say  that  he  has  given  more  than  the  amount  of 
two  thousand  dollars  yearly  to  the  support  of  the  gospel  in 
this  state  ;  and  I  think  I  can  show  it  to  be  so." 

The  eyes  of  the  auditors  were  now  enlarged  to  their  utmost 
limits,  while  the  old  gentleman,  after  the  fashion  of  shrewd 
old  gentlemen  generally,  screwed  up  his  mouth  in  a  very  dry 
twist,  and  looked  in  the  fire  without  saying  a  word. 

"  Come  now,  pray  tell  us  how  this  is,"  said  several  of  the 
company. 

**  Well,  sir,"  said  the  old  man,  "  addressing  himself  to  Mr. 
C,  "  you  are  a  man  of  business,  and  will  perhaps  understand 
the  case  as  I  view  it.  You  were  speaking  this  evening  of 
lawyer  Lennox.  He  and  your  minister  were  both  from  my 
native  place,  and  both  there  and  in  college  your  minister  was 
always  reckoned  the  smartest  of  the  two,  and  went  ahead  in 
every  thing  they  undertook.  Now,  you  see  Mr.  Lennox,  out 
of  his  talents  and  education,  makes  say  three  thousand  a  year. 
Mr.  Stanton  had  more  talent,  and  more  education,  and  might 
have  made  even  more  ;  but  by  devoting  himself  to  the  work 
of  the  ministry  in  your  state,  he  gains,  we  will  say,  about  four 
hundred  dollars.  Does  he  not,  therefore,  in  fact,  give  all  the 
difference  between  four  hundred  and  three  thousand  to  the 
cause  of  religion  in  this  state  ?  If,  during  the  business  season 
of  the  year,  you,  Mr.  C,  should  devote  your  whole  time  to 
some  benevolent  enterprise,  would  you  not  feel  that  you  had 


WHICH    IS    THE    LIBERAL    MAN  ?  263 

virtually  given  to  that  enterprise  all  the  money  you  would 
otherwise  have  made  ?  Instead,  therefore,  of  calling  it  a 
charity  for  you  to  subscribe  to  your  minister's  support,  you 
ought  to  consider  it  a  very  expensive  charity  for  him  to  de- 
vote his  existence  in  preaching  to  you.  To  bring  the  gospel 
to  your  state,  he  has  given  up  a  reasonable  prospect  of  an  in- 
come of  two  or  three  thousand,  and  contents  himself  with  the 
/east  sum  which  will  keep  soul  and  body  together,  without  the 
possibility  of  laying  up  a  cent  for  his  family  in  case  of  his 
sickness  and  death.  This,  sir,  is  what  /  call  giving  in 
charity." 


THE  ELDER'S  FEAST 

A   TRADITION   OF    LAODICEA. 


At  a  certain  time  in  the  earlier  ages  there  lived  in  the  city 
of  Laodicea  a  Christian  elder  of  some  repute,  named  One- 
siphorus.  The  world  had  smiled  on  him,  and  though  a 
Christian,  he  was  rich  and  full  of  honors.  All  men,  even  the 
heathen,  spoke  well  of  him,  for  he  was  a  man  courteous  of 
speech  and  mild  of  manner. 

His  wife,  a  fair  Ionian  lady  but  half  reclaimed  from  idola- 
try, though  baptized  and  accredited  as  a  member  of  the  Chris- 
tian church,  still  lingered  lovingly  on  the  confines  of  old  hea- 
thenism, and  if  she  did  not  believe,  still  cherished  with  pleas- 
ure the  poetic  legends  of  Apollo  and  Venus,  of  Jove  and 
Diana. 

A  large  and  fair  family  of  sons  and  daughters  had  risen 
around  these  parents ;  but  their  education  had  been  much 
after  the  rudiments  of  this  world,  and  not  after.  Christ. 
Though,  according  to  the  customs  of  the  church,  they  were 
brought  to  the  font  of  baptism,  and  sealed  in  the  name  of 
the  Father,  and  the  Son,  and  Holy  Ghost,  and  although 
daily,  instead  of  libations  to  the  Penates,  or   flower  offerings 

(264) 


the  elder's  feast.  265 

to  Diana  and  Juno,  the  name  of  Jesus  was  invoked,  yet  the 
spirit  of  Jesus  was  wanting.  The  chosen  associates  of  all  these 
children,  as  they  grew  older,  were  among  the  heathen  ;  and 
daily  they  urged  their  parents,  by  their  entreaties,  to  conform, 
in  one  thing  after  another,  to  heathen  usage.  "  Why  should 
we  be  singular,  mother  ?  "  said  the  dark-eyed  Myrrah,  as  she 
bound  her  hair  and  arranged  her  dress  after  the  fashion  of  the 
girls  in  the  temple  of  Venus.  "  Why  may  we  not  wear  the 
golden  ornaments  and  images  which  have  been  consecrated  to 
heathen  goddesses  ?  "  said  the  sprightly  Thalia  ;  "  surely  none 
others  are  to  be  bought,  and  are  we  to  do  altogether  without  ?  " 
"  And  why  may  we  not  be  at  feasts  where  libations  are  made 
to  Apollo  or  Jupiter  ?  "  said  the  sons  ;  "  so  long  as  we  do  not 
consent  to  it  or  believe  in  it,  will  our  faith  be  shaken  there- 
by ?  "  "  How  are  we  ever  to  reclaim  the  heathen,  if  we  do  not 
mingle  among  them  ?  "  said  another  son  ;  "  did  not  our  Master 
eat  with  publicans  and  sinners  ?  " 

It  was,  however,  to  be  remarked,  that  no  conversions  of  the 
heathen  to  Christianity  ever  took  place  through  the  means  of 
these  complying  sons  and  daughters,  or  any  of  the  number 
who  followed  their  example.  Instead  of  withdrawing  any 
from  the  confines  of  heathenism,  they  themselves  were  drawn 
so  nearly  over,  that  in  certain  situations  and  circumstances 
they  would  undoubtedly  have  been  ranked  among  them  by  any 
but  a  most  scrutinizing  observer.  If  any  in  the  city  of  Laod- 
icea  were  ever  led  to  unite  themselves  with  Jesus,  it  was 
by  means  of  a  few  who  observed  the  full  simplicity  of  the 
ancient  faith,  and  who,  though  honest,  tender,  and  courteous  in 
all  their  dealings  with  the  heathen,  still  went  not  a  step  with 
them  in  conformity  to  any  of  their  customs. 

In  time,  though  the  family  we  speak  of  never  broke  off 


26G  the  elder's  feast. 

from  the  Christian  church,  yet  if  you  had  been  in  it,  you 
might  have  heard  much  warm  and  earnest  conversation  about 
things  that  took  place  at  the  baths,  or  in  feasts  to  various  di- 
vinities ;  but  if  any  one  spoke  of  Jesus,  there  was  immediate- 
ly a  cold  silence,  a  decorous,  chilling,  respectful  pause,  after 
which  the  conversation,  with  a  bound,  flew  back  into  the  old 
channel  again. 

It  was  now  night ;  and  the  house  of  Onesiphorus  the  Elder 
was  blazing  with  torches,  alive  with  music,  and  all  the  hurry 
and  stir  of  a  sumptuous  banquet.  All  the  wealth  and  fashion 
of  Laodicea  were  there,  Christian  and  heathen  ;  and  all  that 
the  classic  voluptuousness  of  Oriental  Greece  could  give  to 
shed  enchantment  over  the  scene  was  there.  In  ancient  times 
the  festivals  of  Christians  in  Laodicea  had  been  regulated  in 
the  spirit  of  the  command  of  Jesus,  as  recorded  by  Luke, 
whose  classical  Greek  had  made  his  the  established  version  in 
Asia  Minor.  "  And  thou,  when  thou  makest  a  feast,  call  not 
thy  friends  and  thy  kinsmen,  nor  thy  rich  neighbors,  lest  they 
also  bid  thee,  and  a  recompense  be  made  thee.  But  when 
thou  makest  a  feast,  call  the  poor,  and  the  maimed,  and  the 
lame,  and  the  blind,  and  thou  shalt  be  blessed  ;  for  they  cannot 
recompense  thee,  but  thou  shalt  be  recompensed  at  the  resurrec- 
tion of  the  just." 

That  very  day,  before  the  entertainment,  had  this  passage 
been  quoted  in  the  ears  of  the  family  by  Cleon,  the  youngest 
son,  who,  different  from  all  his  family,  had  cherished"  in  his 
bosom  the  simplicity  of  the  old  belief. 

"  How  ridiculous  !  how  absurd  ! :'  had  been  the  reply  of  the 
more  thoughtless  members  of  the  family,  when  Cleon  cited 
the  above  passage  as  in  point  to  the  evening's  entertainment. 


the  elder's  feast.  207 

The  dark-eyed  mother  looked  reproof  on  the  levity  of  the 
younger  children,  and  decorously  applauded  the  passage,  which 
she  said  had  no  application  to  the  matter  in  hand. 

"  But,  mother,  even  if  the  passage  be  not  literally  taken, 
it  must  mean  something.  What  did  the  Lord  Jesus  intend 
by  it  ?  If  we  Christians  may  make  entertainments  with  all 
the  parade  and  expense  of  our  heathen  neighbors,  and  thus 
spend  the  money  that  might  be  devoted  to  charity,  what  does 
this  passage  mean  ?  " 

"  Your  father  gives  in  charity  as  handsomely  as  any  Chris- 
tian in  Laodicea,"  said  his  mother  warmly. 

"  Nay,  mother,  that  may  be  ;  but  I  bethink  me  now  of  two 
or  three  times  when  means  have  been  wanting  for  the  relieving 
of  the  poor,  and  the  ransoming  of  captives,  and  the  support  of 
apostles,  when  we  have  said  that  we  could  give  no  more." 

"  My  son,"  said  his  mother,  "  you  do  not  understand  the 
ways  of  the  world." 

"  Nay,  how  should  he  ?  "  said  Thalia,  "  shut  up  day  and 
night  with  that  old  papyrus  of  St.  Luke  and  Paul's  Epistles. 
One  may  have  too  much  of  a  good  thing." 

"  But  does  not  the  holy  Paul  say,  '  Be  not  conformed  to  this 
world '  ?  " 

"  Certainly,"  said  the  elder ;  "  that  means  that  we  should 
be  baptized,  and  not  worship  in  the  heathen  temples." 

"  My  dear  son,"  said  his  mother,  "  you  intend  well,  doubt- 
less ;  but  you  have  not.  sufficient  knowledge  of  life  to  estimate 
our  relations  to  society.  Entertainments  of  this  sort  are  ab- 
solutely necessary  to  sustain  our  position  in  the  world.  If 
we  accept,  we  must  return  them." 

But  not  to  dwell  on  this  conversation,  let  us  suppose  our- 
selves in  the  rooms  now  glittering  with  lights,  and  gay  with 


2GS  the  elder's  feast. 

every  costly  luxury  of  wealth  and  taste.  Here  were  statues 
to  Diana  and  Apollo,  and  to  the  household  Juno  —  not  meant 
for  worship  —  of  course  not  —  but  simply  to  conform  to  the 
general  usages  of  good  society;  and  so  far  had  this  complaisance 
been  carried,  that  the  shrine  of  a  peerless  Venus  was  adorned 
with  garlands  and  votive  offerings,  and  an  exquisitely  wrought 
silver  censer  diffused  its  perfume  on  the  marble  altar  in  front. 
This  complaisance  on  the  p>art  of  some  of  the  younger  mem- 
bers of  the  family  drew  from  the  elder  a  gentle  remonstrance, 
as  having  an  unseemly  appearance  for  those  bearing  the 
Christian  name;  but  they  readily  answered,  "  Has  not  Paul 
said,  '  We  know  that  an  idol  is  nothing '  ?  Where  is  the  harm 
of  an  elegant  statue,  considered  merely  as  a  consummate  work 
of  art  ?  As  for  the  flowers,  are  they  not  simply  the  most 
appropriate  ornament?  And  where  is  the  harm  of  burning 
exquisite  perfume  ?  And  is  it  worse  to  burn  it  in  one  place 
than  another  ?  " 

"  Upon  my  sword,"  said  one  of  the  heathen  guests,  as  he 
wandered  through  the  gay  scene,  "  how  liberal  and  accommo- 
dating these  Christians  are  becoming  !  Except  in  a  few  small 
matters  in  the  temple,  they  seem  to  be  with  us  entirely." 

"  Ah,"  said  another,  "  it  was  not  so  years  back.  Nothing 
was  heard  among  them,  then,  but  prayers,  and  alms,  and  visits 
to  the  poor  and  sick  ;  and  when  they  met  together  in  their 
feasts,  there  was  so  much  of  their  talk  of  Christ,  and  such 
singing  of  hymns  and  prayer,  that  one  of  us  found  himself 
quite  out  of  place." 

"  Yes,"  said  an  old  man  present,  "  in  those  days  I  quite  be- 
thought me  of  being  some  day  a  Christian  ;  but  look  you,  they 
arc  grown  bo  near  like  us  now,  it  is  scarce  worth  one's  while 
to  change.     A  little  matter  of  ceremony  in  the  temple,  and 


the  elder's  feast.  2G9 

offering  incense  to  Jesus,  instead  of  Jupiter,  when  all  else  is 
the  same,  can  make  small  odds  in  a  man." 

But  now,  the  ancient  legend  goes  on  to  say,  that  in  the 
midst  of  that  gay  and  brilliant  evening,  a  stranger  of  remark- 
able appearance  and  manners  was  noticed  among  the  throng. 
None  knew  him,  or  whence  he  came.  He  mingled  not  in  the 
mirth,  and  seemed  to  recognize  no  one  present,  though  he 
regarded  all  that  was  passing  with  a  peculiar  air  of  still  and 
earnest  attention  ;  and  wherever  he  moved,  his  calm,  penetrat- 
ing gaze  seemed  to  diffuse  a  singular  uneasiness  about  him. 
Now  his  eye  was  fixed  with  a  quiet  scrutiny  on  the  idolatrous 
statues,  with  their  votive  adornments  —  now  it  followed  ear- 
nestly the  young  forms  that  were  wreathing  in  the  graceful 
waves  of  the  dance;  and  then  he  turned  towards  the  tables, 
loaded  with  every, luxury  and  sparkling  with  wines,  where  the 
devotion  to  Bacchus  became  more  than  poetic  fiction  ;  and  as 
he  gazed,  a  high,  indignant  sorrow  seemed  to  overshadow  the 
calmness  of  his  majestic  face.  "When,  in  thoughtless  merri- 
ment, some  of  the  gay  company  sought  to  address  him,  they 
found  themselves  shrinking  involuntarily  from  the  soft,  pier- 
cing eye,  and  trembling  at  the  low,  sweet  tones  in  which  he 
replied.  What  he  spoke  was  brief;  but  there  was  a  gravity 
and  tender  wisdom  in  it  that  strangely  contrasted  with  the 
frivolous  scene,  and  awakened  unwonted  ideas  of  heavenly 
purity  even  in  thoughtless  and  dissipated  minds. 

The  only  one  of  the  company  who  seemed  to  seek  his  soci- 
ety was  the  youngest,  the  fair  little  child  Isa.  She  seemed  as 
strangely  attracted  towards  him  as  others  were  repelled  ;  and 
when,  unsolicited,  in  the  frank  confidence  of  childhood  she 
pressed  to  his  side,  and  placed  her  little  hand  in  his,  the  look 
of  radiant  compassion   and  tenderness  which  beamed  down 


270  the  elder's  feast. 

from  those  eyes  was  indeed  glorious  to  behold.  Yet  here 
and  there,  as  he  glided  among  the  crowd,  he  spoke  in  the  ear 
of  some  Christian  words  which,  though  soft  and  low,  seemed 
to  have  a  mysterious  and  startling  power;  for  one  after  anoth- 
er, pensive,  abashed,  and  confounded,  they  drew  aside  from  the 
gay  scene,  and  seemed  lost  in  thought.  That  stranger  —  who 
was  he  ?  Who  ?  The  inquiry  passed  from  mouth  to  mouth, 
and  one  and  another,  who  had  listened  to  his  low,  earnest 
tones,  looked  on  each  other  with  a  troubled  air.  Ere  long  he 
had  glided  hither  and  thither  in  the  crowd ;  he  had  spoken 
in  the  ear  of  every  Christian  —  and  suddenly  again  he  was 
gone,  and  they  saw  him  no  more.  Each  had  felt  the  heart 
thrill  within  —  each  spirit  had  vibrated  as  if  the  finger  of  its 
Creator  had  touched  it,  and  shrunk  conscious  as  if  an  omnis- 
cient eye  were  upon  it.  Each  heart  was  stirred  from  its 
depths.  Vain  sophistries,  worldly  maxims,  making  the  false 
look  true,  all  appeared  to  rise  and  clear  away  like  a  mist ;  and 
at  once  each  one  seemed  to  see,  as  God  sees,  the  true  state  of 
the  inner  world,  the  true  motive  and  reason  of  action,  and  in 
the  instinctive  pause  that  passed  through  the  company,  the 
banquet  was  broken  up  and  deserted. 

"  And  what  if  their  God  were  present  ?  "  said  one  of  the 
heathen  members  of  the  company,  next  day.  "Why  did  they 
all  look  so  blank  ?  A  most  favorable  omen,  wre  should  call  it, 
to  have  one's  patron  divinity  at  a  feast." 

"  Besides,"  said  another,  "  these  Christians  hold  that  their 
God  is  always  every  where  present ;  so,  at  most,  they  have 
but  had  their  eyes  opened  to  see  Him  who  is  always  there !  " 


What  is  practically  the  meaning  of  the  precept,  "  Be  .not 
conformed  to  the  world  ?  "  In  its  every-day  results,  it  presents 


the  elder's  feast.  271 

many  problems  difficult  of  solution.  There  are  so  many 
shades  and  Mendings  of  situation  and  circumstances,  so  many 
things,  innocent  and  graceful  in  themselves,  which,  like  flow- 
ers and  incense  on  a  heathen  altar,  become  unchristian  only 
through  position  and  circumstances,  that  the  most  honest  and 
well-intentioned  arc  often  perplexed. 

That  we  must  conform  in  some  things,  is  conceded  ;  yet  the 
whole  tenor  of  the  New  Testament  shows  that  this  conformity 
must  have  its  limits  —  that  Christians  are  to  be  transformed, 
so  as  to  exhibit  to  the  world  a  higher  and  more  complete  style 
of  life,  and  thus  "prove  what  is  the  good,  and  acceptable,  and 
perfect  will  of  God." 

But  in  many  particulars  as  to  style  of  living  and  modes  of 
social  intercourse,  there  can  be  no  definite  rules  laid  down,  and 
no  Christian  can  venture  to  judge  another  by  his  standard. 

One  Christian  condemns  dress  adornment,  and  the  whole 
application  of  taste  to  the  usages  of  life,  as  a  sinful  waste  of 
time  and  money.  Another,  perceiving  in  every  work  of  God 
a  love  and  appreciation  of  the  beautiful,  believes  that  there  is 
a  sphere  in  which  he  is  pleased  to  see  the  same  trait  in  his 
children,  if  the  indulgence  do  not  become  excessive,  and  thus 
interfere  with  higher  duties. 

One  condemns  all  time  and  expense  laid  out  in  social  visit- 
ing as  so  much  waste.  Another  remembers  that  Jesus,  when 
just  entering  on  the  most  vast  and  absorbing  work,  turned 
aside  to  attend  a  wedding  feast,  and  wrought  his  first  miracle 
to  enhance  its  social  enjoyment.  Again,  there  are  others  who, 
because  some  indulgence  of  taste  and  some  exercise  for  the 
social  powers  are  admissible,  go  all  lengths  in  extravagance, 
and  in  company,  dress,  and  the  externals  of  life. 

In  the  same  manner,  with  regard  to  style  of  life  and  social 


272  the  elder's  feast. 

entertainment — most  of  the  items  which  go  to  constitute 
what  is  called  style  of  living,  or  the  style  of  particular  parties, 
may  be  in  themselves  innocent,  and  yet  they  may  be  so  inter- 
woven and  combined  with  evils,  that  the  whole  effect  shall  be 
felt  to  be  decidedly  unchristian,  both  by  Christians  and  the 
world.  How,  then,  shall  the  well-disposed  person  know  where 
to  stop,  and  how  to  strike  the  just  medium  ? 

We  know  of  but  one  safe  rule  :  read  the  life  of  Jesus  with 
attention  —  study  it  —  inquire  earnestly  with  yourself,  "  What 
sort  of  a  person,  in  thought,  in  feeling,  in  action,  was  my  Sa- 
vior ?  "  —  live  in  constant  sympathy  and  communion  with  him 
—  and  there  will  be  within  a  kind  of  instinctive  rule  by  which 
to  try  all  things.  A  young  man,  who  was  to  be  exposed  to 
the  temptations  of  one  of  the  most  dissipated  European  capi- 
tals, carried  with  him  his  father's  picture,  and  hung  it  in  his 
apartment.  Before  going  out  to  any  of  the  numerous  resorts 
of  the  city,  he  was  accustomed  to  contemplate  this  picture, 
and  say  to  himself,  "  Would  my  father  wish  to  see  me  in  the 
place  to  which  I  am  going  ? "  and  thus  was  he  saved  from 
many  a  temptation.  In  like  manner  the  Christian,  who  has 
always  by  his  side  the  beautiful  ideal  of  his  Savior,  finds  it  a 
holy  charm,  by  which  he  is  gently  restrained  from  all  that  is 
unsuitable  to  his  profession.  He  has  but  to  inquire  of  any 
scene  or  employment,  "  Should  I  be  well  pleased  to  meet  my 
Savior  there  ?  Would  the  trains  of  thought  I  should  there 
fall  into,  the  state  of  mind  that  would  there  be  induced,  be 
such  as  would  harmonize  with  an  interview  with  him  ?  "  Thus 
protected  and  defended,  social  enjoyment  might  be  like  that 
of  Mary  and  John,  and  the  disciples,  when,  under  the  mild, 
approving  eye  of  the  Son  of  God,  they  shared  the  festivities 
of  Cana. 


LITTLE  FRED,  THE  CANAL  BOY. 


PART   I. 

In  the  outskirts  of  the  little  town  of  Toledo,  in  Ohio,  might 
be  seen  a  small,  one-story  cottage,  whose  external  architecture 
no  way  distinguished  it  from  dozens  of  other  residences  of 
the  poor,  by  which  it  was  surrounded.  But  over  this  dwell- 
ing, a  presiding  air  of  sanctity  and  neatness,  of  quiet  and  re- 
pose, marked  it  out  as  different  from  every  other. 

The  little  patch  before  the  door,  instead  of  being  a  loafing 
ground  for  swine,  and  a  receptacle  of  litter  and  filth,  was  trimly 
set  with  flowers,  weeded,  watered,  and  fenced  with  dainty 
care.  The  scarlet  bignonia  clambered  over  the  mouldering 
logs  of  the  sides,  shrouding  their  roughness  in  its  gorgeous 
mantle  of  green  and  crimson,  and  the  good  old-fashioned 
morning  glory,  laced  across  the  window,  unfolded,  every  day, 
tints  whose  beauty,  though  cheap  and  common,  the  finest 
French  milliner  might  in  vain  seek  to  rival. 

When,  in  travelling  the  western  country,  you  meet  such  a 
dwelling,  do  you  not  instinctively  know  what  you  shall  see 
inside  of  it  ?  Do  you  not  seem  to  see  the  trimly-sanded  floor, 
the  well-kept  furniture,  the  snowy  muslin  curtain  ?  Are  you 
not  sure  that  on  a  neat  stand  you  shall  see,  as  on  an  altar,  the 

(273) 


274 

dear  old  family  Bible,  brought,  like  the  ancient  ark  of  the 
covenant,  into  the  far  wilderness,  and  ever  overshadowed,  as 
a  bright  cloud,  with  remembered  prayers  and  counsels  of  father 
and  mother,  in  a  far  off  New  England  home  ? 

And  in  this  cottage  there  was  such  a  Bible,  brought  from 
the  wild  hills  of  New  Hampshire,  and  its  middle  page  re- 
corded the  marriage  of  James  Sandford  to  Mary  Irving ;  and 
alas  !  after  it  another  record,  traced  in  a  trembling  hand  —  the 
death  of  James  Sandford,  at  Toledo.  And  this  fair,  thin 
woman,  in  the  black  dress,  with  soft  brown  hair  parted  over  a 
pale  forehead,  with  calm,  patient  blue  eyes,  and  fading  cheek, 
is  the  once  energetic,  buoyant,  light-hearted  New  Hampshire 
girl,  who  has  brought  with  her  the  strongest  religious  faith, 
the  active  practical  knowledge,  the  skilful,  well-trained  hand 
and  clear  head,  with  which  cold  New  England  portions  her 
daughters.  She  had  left  all,  and  come  to  the  western  wilds 
with  no  other  capital  than  her  husband's  manly  heart  and  ac- 
tive brain  —  he  young,  strong,  full  of  hope,  prompt,  energetic, 
and  skilled  to  acquire  —  she  careful,  prudent,  steady,  no  less 
skilled  to  save  ;  and  between  the  two  no  better  firm  for  acqui- 
sition and  prospective  success  could  be  desired.  Every  body 
prophesied  that  James  Sandford  would  succeed,  and  Mary 
heard  these  praises  with  a  quiet  exultation.  But  alas  !  that 
whole  capital  of  hers  —  that  one  strong,  young  heart,  that 
ready,  helpful  hand  —  two  weeks  of  the  count ry's  fever  sufhced 
to  lay  them  cold  and  low  forever. 

And  Mary  yet  lived,  with  her  babe  in  her  arms,  and  one 
bright  little  boy  by  her  side  ;  and  this  boy  is  our  little  brown- 
eyed  Fred  —  the  hero  of  our  story.  But  few  years  had  rolled 
over  his  curly  head,  when  he  first  looked,  weeping  and  won- 
dering, on  the  face  of  death.     Ah,  one  look  on  that  awful  face 


LITTLE    FRED,    THE    CANAL    BOY.  275 

adds  years  at  once  to  the  age  of  the  heart ;  and  little  Fred 
felt  manly  thoughts  aroused  in  him  by  the  cold  stillness  of  his 
father,  and  the  deep,  calm  anguish  of  his  mother. 

"  0  mamma,  don't  cry  so,  don't,"  said  the  little  fellow.  "  I 
am  alive,  and  I  can  take  care  of  you.  Dear  mamma,  I  pray 
for  you  every  day."  And  Mary  was  comforted  even  in  her 
tears  and  thought,  as  she  looked  into  those  clear,  loving  brown 
eyes,  that  her  little  intercessor  would  not  plead  in  vain ;  for 
saith  Jesus,  "  Their  angels  do  always  behold  the  face  of  my 
Father  which  is  in  heaven." 

In  a  few  days  she  learned  to  look  her  sorrows  calmly  in  the 
face,  like  a  brave,  true  woman,  as  she  was.  She  was  a  widow, 
and  out  of  the  sudden  wreck  of  her  husband's  plans  but  a 
pittance  remained  to  her,  and  she  cast  about,  with  busy  hand 
and  head,  for  some  means  to  eke  it  out.  She  took  in  sewing 
—  she  took  in  washing  and  ironing ;  and  happy  did  the  young 
exquisite  deem  himself,  whose  shirts  came  with  such  faultless 
plaits,  such  snowy  freshness,  from  the  slender  hands  of  Mary. 
With  that  matchless  gift  which  old  Yankee  housewives  call 
faculty,  Mary  kept  together  all  the  ends  of  her  ravelled  skein 
of  lii'e,  and  began  to  make  them  wind  smoothly.  Her  baby 
was  the  neatest  of  all  babies,  as  it  was  assuredly  the  prettiest, 
and  her  little  Fred  the  handiest  and  most  universal  genius 
of  all  boys.  It  was  Fred  that  could  wring  out  all  the 
stockings,  and  hang  out  all  the  small  clothes,  that  tended  the 
baby  by  night  and  by  day,  that  made  her  a  wagon  out  of  an 
old  soap  box,  in  which  he  drew  her  in  triumph ;  and  at  their 
meals  he  stood  reverently  in  his  father's  place,  and  with  folded 
hands  repeated,  "  Bless  the  Lord,  O  my  soul,  and  forget  not 
all  his  mercies ; "  and  his  mother's  heart  responded  amen  to 
the  simple  prayer.     Then  he  learned,  with  manifold  pulling 


276  LITTLE    FRED,    THE    CANAL    BOY. 

and  much  haggling,  to  saw  wood  quite  decently,  and  to  swing 
an  axe  almost  as  big  as  himself  in  wood  splitting ;  and  he  ran 
of  errands,  and  did  business  with  an  air  of  bustling  importance 
that  was  edifying  to  see ;  he  knew  the  prices  of  lard,  butter, 
and  dried  apples,  as  well  as  any  man  about,  and,  as  the  store- 
keeper approvingly  told  him,  wras  a  smart  chap  at  a  bargain. 
Fred  grew  three  inches  higher  the  moment  he  heard  it. 

In  the  evenings  after  the  baby  was  asleep,  Fred  sat  by  his 
mother  with  slate  and  book,  deep  in  the  mysteries  of  reading, 
writing,  and  ciphering ;  and  then  the  mother  and  son  talked 
over  their  little  plans,  and  hallowed  their  nightly  rest  by 
prayer ;  and  when,  before  retiring,  his  mother  knelt  with  him 
by  his  little  bed  and  prayed,  the  child  often  sobbed  with  a 
strange  emotion,  for  which  he  could  give  no  reason.  Some- 
thing there  is  in  the  voice  of  real  prayer  that  thrills  a  child's 
heart,  even  before  he  understands  it ;  the  holy  tones  are  a 
kind  of  heavenly  music,  and  far  off  in  distant  years,  the  cal- 
lous and  worldly  man,  often  thrills  to  his  heart's  core,  when 
some  turn  of  life  recalls  to  him  his  mother's  prayer. 

So  passed  the  first  years  of  the  life  of  Fred.  Meanwhile 
his  little  sister  had  come  to  toddle  about  the  cottage  floor,  full 
of  insatiable  and  immeasurable  schemes  of  mischief.  It  was 
she  that  upset  the  clothes  basket,  and  pulled  over  the  molasses 
pitcher  on  to  her  own  astonished  head,  and  with  incredible 
labor  upset  every  pail  of  wrater  that  by  momentary  thought- 
lessness was  put  within  reach.  It  wras  she  that  was  found 
stuffing  poor,  solemn  old  pussy  head  first  into  the  water  jar, 
that  wiped  up  the  floor  with  her  mother's  freshly-ironed  clothes, 
and  jabbered  meanwhile,  in  most  unexampled  Babylonish 
dialect,  her  own  vindications  and  explanations  of  these  misde- 
meanors.    Every    day  her    mother  declared    that   she    must 


LITTLE    FRED,    THE    CANAL    BOY.  277 

begin  to  get  that  child  into  some  kind  of  order;  but  still 
the  merry  little  curly  pate  contemned  law  and  order,  and 
laughed  at  all  ideas  of  retributive  justice,  and  Fred  and 
his  mother  laughed  and  deplored,  in  the  same  invariable  suc- 
cession, the  various  direful  results  of  her  activity  and  en- 
terprise. 

But  still,  as  Mary  toiled  on,  heavy  cares  weighed  down  her 
heart.  Her  boy  grew  larger  and  larger,  and  her  own  health 
grew  feebler  in  proportion  as  it  needed  to  be  stronger. 
Sometimes  a  whole  week  at  a  time  found  her  scarce  able  to 
crawl  from  her  bed,  shaking  with  ague,  or  burning  with  fever ; 
and  when  there  is  little  or  nothing  with  which  to  replace  them, 
how  fast  food  seems  to  be  consumed,  and  clothing  to  be  worn 
out !  And  so  at  length  it  came  to  pass  that,  notwithstanding 
the  labors  of  the  most  tireless  of  needles,  and  the  cutting, 
clipping,  and  contriving  of  the  most  ingenious  of  hands,  the 
poor  mother  was  forced  to  own  to  herself  that  her  dar- 
lings looked  really  shabby,  and  kind  neighbors  one  by  one 
hinted  and  said  that  she  must  do  something  with  her  boy  — 
that  he  was  old  enough  to  earn  his  own  living ;  and  the  same 
idea  occurred  to  the  spirited  little  fellow  himself. 

He  had  often  been  along  by  the  side  of  the  canal,  and  ad- 
mired the  horses  ;  for  between  a  horse  and  Fred  there  was  a 
perfect  magnetic  sympathy,  and  no  lot  in  life  looked  to  him  so 
bright  and  desirable  as  to  be  able  to  sit  on  a  horse  and  drive 

o 

all  day  long ;  and  when  Captain  \V.,  pleased  with  the  boy's 
bright  face  and  prompt  motions,  sought  to  enlist  him  as  one 
of  his  drivers,  he  found  a  delighted  listener.  "  If  he  could 
only  persuade  mother,  there  was  nothing"  like  it."  For  many 
nights  after  the  matter  was  proposed,  Mary  only  cried  ;  and  all 
Fred's  eloquence,  and  his  brave  promises  of  never  doing  any 
24 


278  LITTLE    FRED,    THE    CANAL    BOY. 

thing  wrong,  and  being  the  best  of  all  supposable  boys,  were 
insufficient  to  console  her. 

Every  time  she  looked  at  the  neat,  pure  little  bed,  beside  her 
own,  that  bed  hallowed  by  so  many  prayers,  and  saw  her  boy, 
with  his  glowing  cheeks  and  long  and  dark  lashes,  sleeping  so 
innocently  and  trustfully,  her  heart  died  within  her,  as  she 
thought  of  a  dirty  berth  on  the  canal  boat,  and  rough  boat- 
men, swearing,  chewing  tobacco,  and  drinking  ;  and  should  she 
take  her  darling  from  her  bosom  and  throw  him  out  among 
these  ?  Ah,  happy  mother !  look  at  your  little  son  of  ten  years, 
and  ask  yourself,  if  you  were  obliged  to  do  this,  should  you  not 
tremble!  Give  God  thanks,  therefore,  you  can  hold  your 
child  to  your  heart  till  he  is  old  enough  to  breast  the  dark 
wave  of  life.  The  poor  must  throw  them  in,  to  sink  or  swim, 
as  happens.  Not  for  ease  —  not  for  freedom  from  care  —  not 
for  commodious  house  and  fine  furniture,  and  all  that  compe- 
tence gives,  should  you  thank  God  so  much  as  for  this,  that  you 
are  able  to  shelter,  guide,  restrain,  and  educate  the  helpless 
years  of  your  children. 

Mary  yielded  at  last  to  that  master  who  can  subdue  all  wills 
—  necessity.  Sorrowfully, _yet  with  hope  in  God,  she  made 
up  the  little  package  for  her  boy,  and  communicated  to  him 
with  renewed  minuteness  her  parting  counsels  and  instruc- 
tions. Fred  was  bright  and  full  of  hope.  He  was  sure  of 
the  great  point  about  which  his  mother's  anxiety  clustered  — 
he  should  be  a  good  boy,  he  knew  he  should ;  he  never  should 
swear ;  he  never  should  touch  a  drop  of  spirits,  no  matter 
who  asked  him  —  that  he  was  sure  of.  Then  he  liked  horses 
so  much  :  he  should  ride  all  day  and  never  get  tired,  and  he 
would  come  back  and  bring  her  some  money  ;  and  so  the  boy 
and  his  mother  parted. 


LITTLE    FRED,    THE    CANAL    BOY.  279 

Physical  want  or  hardship  is  not  the  great  thing  which  a 
mother  need  dread  for  her  child  in  our  country.  There  is  scarce 
any  situation  in  America  where  a  child  would  not  receive,  as 
a  matter  of  course,  good  food  and  shelter;  nor  is  he  often 
overworked.  In  these  respects  a  general  spirit  of  good  na- 
ture is  perceptible  among  employers,  so  that  our  Fred  meets 
none  of  the  harrowing  adventures  of  an  Oliver  Twist  in  his 
new  situation. 

To  be  sure  he  soon  found  it  was  not  as  good  fun  to  ride  a 
horse  hour  after  hour,  and  day  after  day,  as  it  was  to  prance 
and  caper  about  for  the  first  few  minutes.  At  first  his  back 
ached,  and  his  little  hands  grew  stiff,  and  he  wished  his  turn 
were  out,  hours  before  the  time  ;  but  time  mended  all  this.  lie 
grew  healthy  and  strong,  and  though  occasionally  kicked  and 
tumbled  about  rather  unceremoniously  by  the  rough  men  among 
whom  he  had  been  cast,  yet,  as  they  said,  "  he  was  a  chap 
that  always  came  down  on  his  feet,  throw  him  which  way  you 
would  ; "  and  for  this  reason  he  was  rather  a  favorite  among 
them.  The  fat,  black  cook,  who  piqued  himself  particularly 
on  making  corn  cake  and  singing  Methodist  hymns  in  a  style 
of  unsurpassed  excellence,  took  Fred  into  particular  favor,  and 
being  equally  at  home  in  kitchen  and  camp  meeting  lore,  not 
only  put  by  for  him  various  dainty  scraps  and  fragments,  but 
also  undertook  to  further  his  moral  education  by  occasional 
luminous  exhortations  and  expositions  of  Scripture,  which 
somewhat  puzzled  poor  Fred,  and  greatly  amused  the  deck 
hands. 

Often,  after  driving  all  day,  Fred  sat  on  deck  beside  his  fat 
friend,  while  the  boat  glided  on  through  miles  and  miles  of 
solemn,  unbroken  old  woods,  and  heard  him  sing  about  ';  dc 
"  good  old  Moses,  and  Paul,   and  Si- 


280  LITTLE    FRED,   THE    CANAL    BOY. 

las,"  with  a  kind  of  dreamy,  wild  pleasure.  To  be  sure  it  was 
not  like  his  mother's  singing ;  but  then  it  had  a  sort  of  good 
sound,  although  he  never  could  very  precisely  make  out  the 
meaning. 

As  to  being  a  good  boy,  Fred,  to  do  him  justice,  certainly 
tried  to  very  considerable  purpose.  He  did  not  swear  as  yet, 
although  he  heard  so  much  of  it  daily  that  it  seemed  the  most 
natural  thing  in  the  world  ;  and  although  one  and  another  of 
the  hands  often  offered  him  tempting  portions  of  their  pota- 
tions, as  they  said,  "  to  make  a  man  of  him,"  yet  Fred  faith- 
fully kept  his  little  temperance  pledge  to  his  mother.  Many 
a  weary  hour,  as  he  rode,  and  rode,  and  rode  through  hundreds 
of  miles  of  unvarying  forest,  he  strengthened  his  good  resolu- 
tions by  thoughts  of  home  and  its  scenes. 

There  sat  his  mother ;  there  stood  his  own  little  bed ;  there 
his  baby  sister,  toddling  about  in  her  night  gown ;  and  he  re- 
peated the  prayers  and  sung  the  hymns  his  mother  taught  him, 
and  thus  the  good  seed  still  grew  within  him.  In  fact,  with  no 
very  distinguished  adventures,  Fred  achieved  the  journey  to 
Cincinnati  and  back,  and  proud  of  his  laurels,  and  with  his 
wages  in  his  pocket,  found  himself  again  at  the  familiar 
door. 

Poor  Fred  !  a  sad  surprise  awaited  him.  The  elfin  shadow 
that  was  once  ever  flitting  about  the  dwelling  was  gone ;  the 
little  pattering  footsteps,  the  tireless,  busy  fingers,  all  gone  ! 
and  his  mother,  paler,  sicker,  sadder  than  before,  clasped  him 
to  her  bosom,  and  called  him  her  only  comfort.  Fred  had 
brought  a  pocket  full  of  sugar  plums,  and  the  brightest  of 
yellow  oranges  to  his  little  pet;  alas!  how  mournfully  he  re- 
garded  them  now  ! 

How  little  do  we  realize,  when  we  hear  that  such  and  such 


LITTLE    FRED,    THE    CANAL    BOY.  281 

a  poor  woman  has  lost  her  baby,  how  much  is  implied  to  her 
in  the  loss  !  She  is  poor  ;  she  must  work  hard  ;  the  child  was 
a  great  addition  to  her  cares  ;  and  even  pitying  neighbors  say, 
"  It  was  better  for  her,  poor  thing  !  and  for  the  child  too." 
But  perhaps  this  very  child  was  the  only  flower  of  a  life  else 
wholly  barren  and  desolate.  There  is  often,  even  in  the  hum- 
blest and  most  uncultured  nature,  an  undefined  longing  and 
pining  for  the  beautiful.  It  expresses  itself  sometimes  in  the 
love  of  birds  and  of  flowers,  and  one  sees  the  rosebush  or  the 
canary  bird  in  a  dwelling  from  which  is  banished  every  trace 
of  luxury.  But  the  little  child,  with  its  sweet,  spiritual  eyes, 
its  thousand  bird-like  tones,  its  prattling,  endearing  ways,  its 
guileless,  loving  heart,  is  a  full  and  perfect  answer  to  the 
most  ardent  craving  of  the  soul.  It  is  a  whole  little  Eden  of 
itself ;  and  the  poor  woman  whose  whole  life  else  is  one  dreary 
waste  of  toil,  clasps  her  babe  to  her  bosom,  and  feels  proud, 
and  rich,  and  happy.  Truly  said  the  Son  of  God,  "  Of  such 
are  the  kingdom  of  heaven." 

Poor  Mary !  how  glad  she  was  to  see  her  boy  again  —  most 
of  all,  that  they  could  talk  together  of  their  lost  one !  How 
they  discoursed  for  hours  about  her !  How  they  cried  together 
over  the  little  faded  bonnet,  that  once  could  scarce  be  kept  for 
a  moment  on  the  busy,  curly  head  !  How  they  treasured,  as 
relics,  the  small  finger  marks  on  the  doors,  and  consecrated 
with  sacred  care  even  the  traces  of  her  merry  mischief  about 
the  cottage,  and  never  tired  of  telling  over  to  each  other,  with 
smiles  and  tears,  the  record  of  the  past  gleesome  pranks  ! 

But  the  fact  was,  that  Mary  herself  was  fast  wearing  away. 
She  had  borne  up  bravely  against  life ;  but  she  had  but  a  gen- 
tle nature,  and  gradually  she   sank  from  day  to  day.     Fred 
24* 


282  LITTLE  FRED,  THE  CANAL  ROY. 

was  her  patient,  unwearied  nurse,  and  neighbors  —  never 
wanting  in  such  kindnesses  as  they  can  understand  —  sup- 
plied her  few  wants.  The  child  never  wanted  for  food,  and 
the  mantle  shelf  was  filled  with  infallible  specifics,  each  one  of 
which  was  able,  according  to  the  showing,  to  insure  perfect  re- 
covery in  every  case  whatever ;  and  yet,  strange  to  tell,  she  still 
declined.  At  last,  one  still  autumn  morning,  Fred  awoke,  and 
started  at  the  icy  coldness  of  the  hand  clasped  in  his  own. 
He -looked  in  his  mother's  face  ;  it  was  sweet  and  calm  as  that 
of  a  sleeping  infant,  but  he  knew  in  his  heart  that  she  was 
dead. 

PART  II. 

Months  afterwards,  a  cold  December  day  found  Fred  turned 
loose  in  the  streets  of  Cincinnati.  Since  his  mother's  death 
he  had  driven  on  the  canal  boat ;  but  now  the  boat  was  to  lie 
by  for  winter,  and  the  hands  of  course  turned  loose  to  find 
employment  till  spring.  Fred  was  told  that  he  must  look  up 
a  place ;  every  body  was  busy  about  their  own  affairs,  and  he 
must  shift  for  himself;  and  so  with  half  his  wages  in  his  pock- 
et, and  promises  for  the  rest,  he  started  to  seek  his  fortune. 

It  was  a  cold,  cheerless,  gray-eyed  day,  with  an  air  that 
pinched  fingers  and  toes,  and  seemed  to  penetrate  one's  clothes 
like  snow  water —  such  a  day  as  it  needs  the  brightest  fire  and 
the  happiest  heart  to  get  along  at  all  with  ;  and,  unluckily, 
Fred  had  neither.  Christmas  was  approaching,  and  all  the 
shops  had  put  on  their  holiday  dresses  ;  the  confectioners' 
windows  were  glittering  with  sparkling  pyramids  of  candy, 
with  frosted  cake,  and  unfading  fruits  and  flowers  of  the  very 


LITTLE    FRED,    THE    CANAL    BOY.  283 

best  of  sugar.  There,  too,  was  Santa  Claus,  large  as  life, 
with  queer,  wrinkled  visage,  and  back  bowed  with  the  weight 
of  all  desirable  knickknaeks,  going  down  chimney,  in  sight  of  all 
the  children  of  Cincinnati,  who  gathered  around  the  shop  Avith 
constantly-renewed  acclamations.  On  all  sides  might  be 
seen  the  little  people,  thronging,  gazing,  chattering,  while  anx- 
ious papas  and  mammas  in  the  shops  were  gravely  discussing 
tin  trumpets,  dolls,  spades,  wheelbarrows,  and  toy  wagons. 

Fred  never  had  heard  of  the  man  who  said,  "  How  sad  a 
tiling  it  is  to  look  into  happiness  through  another  man's  eyes  !  " 
but  he  felt  something  very  like  it  as  he  moved  through  the 
gay  and  bustling  streets,  where  every  body  seemed  to  be  finding 
what  they  wanted  but  himself. 

He  had  determined  to  keep  up  a  stout  heart ;  but  in  spite 
of  himself,  all  this  bustling  show  and  merriment  made  him 
feel  sadder  and  sadder,  and  lonelier  and  lonelier.  He  knocked 
and  rang  at  door  after  door,  but  nobody  wanted  a  boy  :  nobody 
ever  does  want  a  boy  when  a  boy  is  wanting  a  place.  He  got 
tired  of  ringing  door  bells,  and  tried  some  of  the  shops.  No, 
they  didn't  want  him.  One  said  if  he  was  bigger  he  might 
do  ;  another  wanted  to  know  if  he  could  keep  accounts  ;  one 
thought  that  the  man  around  the  corner  wanted  a  boy,  and 
when  Fred  got  there  he  had  just  engaged  one.  Weary,  dis- 
appointed, and  discouraged,  he  sat  down  by  the  iron  railing 
that  fenced  a  showy  house,  and  thought  what  he  should  do. 
It  was  almost  five  in  the  afternoon :  cold,  dismal,  leaden-gray 
was  the  sky  —  the  darkness  already  coming  on.  Fred  sat 
listlessly  watching  the  great  snow  feathers,  as  they  slowly 
sailed  down  from  the  sky.  Now  he  heard  gay  laughs,  as 
groups  of  merry  children  passed ;  and  then  he  started,  as  he 
saw  some  woman  in  a  black  bonnet,  and  thought   she  looked 


284  LITTLE    FRED,    THE    CANAL    BOY. 

like  his  mother.  But  all  passed,  and  nobody  looked  at  him, 
nobody  wanted  him,  nobody  noticed  him. 

Just  then  a  patter  of  little  feet  was  heard  behind  him  on 
the  flagstones,  and  a  soft,  baby  voice  said,  "How  do.'oo  do?" 
Fred  turned  in  amazement ;  and  there  stood  a  plump,  rosy 
little  creature  of  about  two  years,  with  dimpled  cheek,  ruby 
lips,  and  long,  fair  hair  curling  about  her  sweet  face.  She 
was  dressed  in  a  blue  pelisse,  trimmed  with  swan's  down,  and 
her  complexion  was  so  exquisitely  fair,  her  eyes  so  clear  and 
sweet,  that  Fred  felt  almost  as  if  it  were  an  angel.  The  little 
thing  toddled  up  to  him,  and  holding  up  before  him  a  new  wax 
doll,  all  splendid  in  silk  and  lace,  seemed  quite  disposed  te 
make  his  acquaintance.  Fred  thought  of  his  lost  sister,  and 
his  eyes  filled  up  with  tears.  The  little  one  put  up  one  dim- 
pled hand  to  wipe  them  away,  while  with  the  other  holding 
up  before  him  the  wax  doll,  she  said,  coaxingly,  "  No  no  ky." 

Just  then  the  house  door  opened,  and  a  lady,  richly  dressed, 
darted  out,  exclaiming,  "  Why,  Mary,  you  little  rogue,  how 
came  you  out  here  ?  "  Then  stopping  short,  and  looking  nar- 
rowly on  Fred,  she  said,  somewhat  sharply,  "  Whose  boy  are 
you  ?  and  how  came  you  here  ?" 

"  I'm  nobody's  boy,"  said  Fred,  getting  up,  with  a  bitter 
choking  in  his  throat ;  "  my  mother's  dead  ;  I  only  sat  down 
here  to  rest  me  for  a  while." 

"  Well,  run  away  from  here,"  said  the  lady  ;  but  the  little 
girl  pressed  before  her  mother,  and  jabbering  very  earnestly 
in  unimaginable  English,  seemed  determined  to  give  Fred  her 
wax  doll,  in  which,  she  evidently  thought,  resided  every  pos- 
sible consolation. 

The  lady  felt  in  her  pocket  and  found  a  quarter,  which  she 
threw  towards  Fred.    "  There,  my  boy,  that  will  get  you  lodg- 


LITTLE    FRED,    THE    CANAL    LOT.  285 

ing  and  supper,  and  to-morrow  you  can  find  some  place  to 
work,  I  dare  say ; "  and  she  hurried  in  with  the  little  girl,  and 
shut  the  door. 

It  was  not  money  that  Fred  wanted  just  then,  and  he  picked 
up  the  quarter  with  a  heavy  heart.  The  sky  looked  darker, 
and  the  street  drearier,  and  the  cold  wind  froze  the  tear  on 
his  cheeks  as  he  walked  listlessly  down  the  street  in  the  dis- 
mal twilight. 

"  I  can  go  back  to  the  canal  boat,  and  find  the  cook,"  he 
thought  to  himself.  "  He  told  me  I  might  sleep  with  him  to- 
night if  I  couldn't  find  a  place  ; "  and  he  quickened  his  steps 
with  this  determination.  Just  as  he  was  passing  a  brightly- 
lighted  coffee  house,  familiar  voices  hailed  him,  and  Fred 
stopped ;  he  would  be  glad  even  to  see  a  dog  he  had  ever  met 
before,  and  of  course  he  was  glad  when  two  boys,  old  canal 
boat  acquaintances,  hailed  him,  and  invited  him  into  the  coffee 
house.  The  blazing  fire  was  a  brave  light  on  that  dismal 
night,  and  the  faces  of  the  two  boys  were  full  of  glee,  and 
they  began  rallying  Fred  on  his  doleful  appearance,  and  in- 
sisting on  it  that  he  should  take  something  warm  with  them. 

Fred  hesitated  a  moment ;  but  he  was  tired  and  desperate, 
and  the  steaming,  well-sweetened  beverage  was  too  tempting. 
"  Who  cares  for  me  ?  "  thought  he,  "  and  why  should  I  care  ?" 
and  down  went  the  first  spirituous  liquor  the  boy  had  ever 
tasted  ;  and  in  a  few  moments,  he  felt  a  wonderful  change. 
He  was  no  longer  a  timid,  cold,  disheartened,  heart-sick 
boy,  but  felt  somehow  so  brave,  so  full  of  hope  and  courage, 
that  he  began  to  swagger,  to  laugh  very  loud,  and  to  boast 
in  such  high  terms  of  the  money  in  his  pocket,  and  of  his 
future  intentions  and  prospects,  that  the  two  boys  winked  sig- 
nificantly at  each  other.     They  proposed,  after  sitting  a  while, 


28G  LITTLE    FRED,    THE    CANAL    BOY. 

to  walk  out  and  see  the  shop  windows.  All  three  of  the  boys 
had  taken  enough  to  put  them  to  extra  merriment ;  but  Fred, 
who  was  entirety  unused  to  the  stimulant,  was  quite  beside 
himself.  If  they  sung,  he  shouted ;  if  they  laughed,  he 
screamed ;  and  he  thought  within  himself  he  never  had  heard 
and  thought  so  many  witty  things  as  on  that  very  evening. 
At  last  they  fell  in  with  quite  a  press  of  boys,  who  were 
crowding  round  a  confectionery  window,  and,  as  usual  in  such 
cases,  there  began  an  elbowing  and  scuffling  contest  for  places, 
in  which  Fred  was  quite  conspicuous.  At  last  a  big  boy  pre- 
sumed on  his  superior  size  to  edge  in  front  of  our  hero,  and 
cut  off  his  prospect ;  and  Fred,  without  more  ado,  sent  him 
smashing  through  the  shop  window.  There  was  a  general 
scrabble,  every  one  ran  for  himself,  and  Fred,  never  having 
been  used  to  the  business,  was  not  very  skilful  in  escaping, 
and  of  course  was  caught,  and  committed  to  an  officer,  who, 
with  small  ceremony,  carried  him  off  and  locked  him  up  in 
the  watch  house,  from  which  he  was  the  next  morning  taken 
before  the  mayor,  and  after  examination  sent  to  jail. 

This  sobered  Fred.  He  came  to  himself  as  out  of  a  dream, 
and  he  was  overwhelmed  with  an  agony  of  shame  and  self- 
reproach.  He  had  broken  his  promise  to  his  dead  mother  — 
he  had  been  drinking!  and  his  heart  failed  him  when  he 
thought  of  the  horrors  that  his  mother  had  always  associated 
with  that  word.  And  then  he  was  in  jail  —  that  place  that 
his  mother  had  always  represented  as  an  almost  impossible 
horror,  the  climax  of  shame  and  disgrace.  The  next  night 
the  poor  boy  stretched  himself  on  his  hard,  lonely  bed,  and 
laid  under  his  head  his  little  bundle,  containing  his  few  clothes 
and  his  mother's  Bible,  and  then  sobbed  himself  to  sleep. 

Cold  and  gray  dawned  the  following  morning  on  little  Fred, 


LITTLE    FliED,    THE    CANAL    BOY.  287 

as  he  slowly  and  heavily  awoke,  and  with  a  bitter  chill  of 
despair  recalled  the  events  of  the  last  two  nights,  and  looked 
up  at  the  iron-grated  window,  and  round  on  the  cheerless 
walls  ;  and,  as  if  in  bitter  contrast,  arose  before  him  an  image 
of  his  lost  home  —  the  neat,  quiet  room,  the  white  curtains 
and  snowy  floor,  his  mother's  bed,  with  his  own  little  cot  be- 
side it,  and  his  mother's  mild  blue  eyes,  as  they  looked  upon 
him  only  six  months  ago.  Mechanically  he  untied  the  check 
handkerchief  which  contained  his  few  clothes,  and  worldly 
possessions,  and  relics  of  home. 

There  was  the  small,  clean-printed  Bible  his  mother  had 
given  him  with  so  many  tears  on  their  first  parting ;  there  was 
a  lock  of  her  soft  brown  hair ;  there,  too,  were  a  pair  of  little 
worn  shoes  and  stockings,  a  baby's  rattle,  and  a  curl  of  golden 
hair,  which  he  had  laid  up  in  memory  of  his  lost  little  pet. 
Fred  laid  his  head  down  over  all  these,  his  forlorn  treasures, 
and  sobbed  as  if  his  heart  would  break. 

After  a  while  the  jailer  came  in,  and  really  seemed  affected 
by  the  distress  of  the  child,  and  said  what  he  could  to  console 
him  ;  and  in  the  course  of  the  day,  as  the  boy  "  seemed  to  be 
so  lonesome  like,"  he  introduced  another  boy  into  the  room  as 
company  for  him.  This  was  a  cruel  mercy ;  for  while  the 
child  was  alone  with  himself  and  the  memories  of  the  past,  he 
was,  if  sad,  at  least  safe,  and  in  a  few  hours  after  this  new  in- 
troduction he  was  neither.  His  new  companion  was  a  tall 
boy  of  fourteen,  with  small,  cunning,  gray  eyes,  to  which  a 
slight  cast  gave  an  additional  expression  of  shrewdness  and 
drollery.  He  was  a  young  gentleman  of  great  natural  talent, 
—  in  a  certain  line,  —  with  very  precocious  attainments  in  all 
that  kind  of  information  which  a  boy  gains  by  running  at  large 
for  several  years  in  a  city's  streets  without  any  thing  partic- 


288  LITTLE    FRED,    THE    CANAL    BOY. 

ular  to  do,  or  any  body  in  particular  to  obey  —  any  conscience, 
any  principle,  any  fear  either  of  God  or  man.  We  should  not 
say  that  he  had  never  seen  the  inside  of  a  church,  for  he  had 
been,  for  various  purposes,  into  every  one  of  the  city,  and  to 
every  camp  meeting  for  miles  around ;  and  so  much  had  he 
profited  by  these  exercises,  that  he  could  mimic  to  perfection 
every  minister  who  had  any  perceptible  peculiarity,  could  car- 
icature every  species  of  psalm-singing,  and  give  ludicrous  im- 
itations of  every  form  of  worship.  Then  he  was  au  fait  in 
all  coffee  house  lore,  and'  knew  the  names  and  qualities  of 
every  kind  of  beverage  therein  compounded ;  and  as  to  smok- 
ing and  chewing,  the  first  elements  of  which  he  mastered  when 
he  was  about  six  years  old,  he  was  now  a  connoisseur  in  the 
higher  branches.  He  had  been  in  jail  dozens  of  times  — 
rather  liked  the  fun  ;  had  served  one  term  on  the  chain-gang 
—  not  so  bad  either  —  shouldn't  mind  another  —  learned  a 
good  many  prime  things  there. 

At  first  Fred  seemed  inclined  to  shrink  from  his  new  asso- 
ciate. An  instinctive  feeling,  like  the  warning  of  an  invisible 
angel,  seemed  to  whisper,  "  Beware ! "  But  he  was  alone, 
with  a  heart  full  of  bitter  thoughts,  and  the  sight  of  a  fellow- 
face  was  some  comfort.  Then  his  companion  was  so  dashing, 
so  funny,  so  free  and  easy,  and  seemed  to  make  such  a  com- 
fortable matter  of  being  in  jail,  that  Fred's  heart,  naturally 
buoyant,  began  to  come  up  again  in  his  breast.  Dick  Jones 
soon  drew  out  of  him  his  simple  history  as  to  how  he  came 
there,  and  finding  that  he  was  a  raw  hand,  seemed  to  feel 
bound  to  patronize  and  take  him  under  his  wing.  He  laughed 
quite  heartily  at  Fred's  story,  and  soon  succeeded  in  getting 
him  to  laugh  at  it  too. 

How  strange  !  —  the  very  scenes  that  in  the  morning  he 


LITTLE    FRED,    THE    CANAL    BOY.  289 

looked  at  only  with  bitter  anguish  and  remorse,  this  noon  he 
was  laughing  at  as  good  jokes  —  so  much  for  the  influence  of 
good  society  !  An  instinctive  feeling,  soon  after  Dick  Jones 
came  in,  led  Fred  to  push  his  little  bundle  into  the  farthest 
corner,  under  the  bed,  far  out  of  sight  or  inquiry  ;  and  the 
same  reason  led  him  to  suppress  all  mention  of  his  mother,  and 
all  the  sacred  part  of  his  former  life.  He  did  this  more  stu- 
diously, because,  having  once  accidentally  remarked  how  his 
mother  used  to  forbid  him  certain  things,  the  well-educated 
Dick  broke  out,  — 

"  Well,  for  my  part,  I  could  whip  my  mother  when  I  wa'n't 
higher  than  that/"  with  a  significant  gesture. 

"  Whip  your  mother  !  "  exclaimed  Fred,  with  a  face  full  of 
horror. 

"  To  be  sure,  greenie  !  Why  not  ?  Precious  fun  it  was 
in  those  times.  I  used  to  slip  in  and  steal  the  old  woman's 
whiskey  and  sugar  when  she  was  just  too  far  over  to  walk  a 
crack  —  she'd  throw  the  tongs  at  me,  and  I'd  throw  the  shovel 
at  her,  and  so  it  went  square  and  square."  . 

Goethe  says  somewhere,  "Miserable  is  that  man  whose 
mother  has  not  made  all  other  mothers  venerable."  Our  new 
acquaintance  bade  fair  to  come  under  this  category. 

Fred's  education,  under  this  talented  instructor,  made 
progress.  He  sat  hours  and  hours  laughing  at  his  stories  — 
sometimes  obscene,  sometimes  profane,  but  always  so  full  of 
life,  drollery,  and  mimicry  that  a  more  steady  head  than  Fred's 
was  needed  to  withstand  the  contagion.  Dick  had  been  to  the 
theatre  —  knew  it  all  like  a  book,  and  would  take  Fred  there 
as  soon  as  they  got  out;  then  he  had  a  first-rate  pack  of  card  \ 
and  he  could  teach  Fred  to  play ;  and  the  gay  tempters  were 
soon  spread  out  on  their  bed,  and  Fred  and  his  instructor 
25 


290  LITTLE    FRED,    THE    CANAL    BOY. 

sat  hour  after  hour  absorbed  in  what  to  him  was  a  new  world 
of  interest.  '  He  soon  learned,  could  play  for  small  stakes,  and 
felt  in  himself  the  first  glimmering  of  that  fire  which,  when 
fully  kindled,  many  waters  cannot  quench,  nor  floods  drown  ! 

Dick  was,  as  we  said,  precocious.  He  had  the  cool  eye  and 
steady  hand  of  an  experienced  gamester,  and  in  a  few  days  he 
won,  of  course,  all  Fred's  little  earnings.  But  then  he  was  quite 
liberal  and  free  with  his  money.  He  added  to  their  prison  fare 
such  various  improvements  as  his  abundance  of  money  enabled 
him  to  buy.  He  had  brought  with  him  the  foundation  of  good 
cheer  in  a  capacious  bottle  which  emerged  the  first  night  from 
his  pocket,  for  he  said  he  never  went  to  jail  without  his  pro- 
vision ;  then  hot  water,  and  sugar,  and  lemons,  and  pepper- 
mint drops  were  all  forthcoming  for  money,  and  Fred  learned 
once  and  again,  and  again,  the  fatal  secret  of  hushing  con- 
science, and  memory,  and  bitter  despair  in  delirious  happiness, 
and  as  Dick  said,  was  "  getting  to  be  a  right  jolly  'un  that 
would  make  something  yet." 

And  was  it  all  gone,  all  washed  away  by  this  sudden  wave 
of  evil  ?  —  every  trace  of  prayer,  and  hope,  and  sacred  mem- 
ory in  this  poor  child's  heart  ?  No,  not  all ;  for  many  a 
night,  when  his  tempter  slept  by  his  side,  the  child  lived  over 
the  past ;  again  he  kneeled  in  prayer,  and  felt  his  mother's 
guardian  hand  on  his  head,  and  he  wept  tears  of  bitter  remorse, 
and  wondered  at  the  dread  change  that  had  come  over  him. 
Then  he  dreamed,  and  he  saw  his  mother  and  sister  walking 
in  white,  fair  as  angels,  and  would  go  to  them ;  but  between 
him  and  them  was  a  great  gulf  fixed,  which  widened  and 
widened,  and  grew  darker  and  darker,  till  he  could  see  them 
no  more,  and  he  awoke  in  utter  misery  and  despair. 

Again  and  again  he  resolved,  in  the  darkness  of  the  night, 


LITTLE    FRED,    THE    CANAL    BOY.  291 

that  tomorrow  he  would  not  drink,  and  he  would  not  speak  a 
wicked  word,  and  he  would  not  play  cards,  nor  laugh  at  Dick's 
bad  stories.  Ah,  how  many  such  midnight  resolves  have 
evil  angels  sneered  at  and  good  ones  sighed  over  !  for  with 
daylight  back  comes  the  old  temptation,  and  with  it  the  old 
mind  ;  and  with  daylight  came  back  the  inexorable  prison 
walls  which  held  Fred  and  his  successful  tempter  together. 

At  last  he  gave  himself  up.  No,  he  could  not  be  good  with 
Dick  —  there  was  no  use  in  trying  !  —  and  he  made  no  more 
midnight  resolves,  and  drank  more  freely  of  the  dreadful  rem- 
edy for  unquiet  thoughts. 

And  now  is  Fred  growing  in  truth  a  wicked  boy.  In  a 
little  while  more  and  he  shall  be  such  a  one  as  you  will  on  no 
account  take  under  your  roof,  lest  he  corrupt  your  own  chil- 
dren ;  and  yet,  father,  mother,  look  at  your  son  of  twelve  years, 
your  bright,  darling  boy,  and  think  of  him  shut  up  for  a  month 
with  such  a  companion,  in  such  a  cell,  and  ask  yourselves  if 
he  would  be  any  better. 

And  was  there  no  eye,  heavenly  or  earthly,  to  look  after 
this  lost  one?  Was  there  no  eye  which  could  see  through  all 
the  traces  of  sin,  the  yet  lingering  drops  of  that  baptism  and 
early  prayer  and  watchfulness  which  consecrated  it  ?  Yes  ; 
He  whose  mercy  extends  to  the  third  and  fourth  generations 
of  those  who  love  him,  sent  a  friend  to  our  poor  boy  in  his 
last  distress. 

It  is  one  of  the  most  refined  and  characteristic  modifica- 
tions of  Christianity,  that  those  who  are  themselves  sheltered, 
guarded,  fenced  by  good  education,  knowledge,  and  compe- 
tence, appoint  and  sustain  a  pastor  and  guardian  in  our  large 
cities  to  be  the  shepherd  of  the  wandering  and  lost,  and  of 
them  who,  in  the  Scripture  phrase,  "  have  none  to  help."  Just- 


292  LITTLE    FRED,    THE    CANAL    BOY. 

ly  is  he  called  the  "  City  Missionary,"  for  what  is  more  truly 
missionary  ground?  In  the  hospital,  among  the  old,  the 
sick,  the  friendless,  the  forlorn  —  in  the  prison,  among  the 
hardened,  the  blaspheming  —  among  the  discouraged  and  de- 
spairing, still  holding  with  unsteady  hand  on  to  some  forlorn 
fragment  of  virtue  and  self-respect,  goes  this  missionary  to 
stir  the  dying  embers  of  good,  to  warn,  entreat,  implore,  to 
adjure  by  sacred  recollections  of  father,  mother,  and  home, 
the  fallen  wanderers  to  return.  He  finds  friends,  and  places, 
and  employment  for  some,  and  by  timely  aid  and  encourage- 
ment saves  many  a  one  from  destruction. 

In  this  friendly  shape  appeared  a  man  of  prayer  to  visit  the 
cell  in  which  Fred  was  confined.  Dick  listened  to  his  instruc- 
tions with  cool  complacency,  rolling  his  tobacco  from  side  to 
side  in  his  mouth,  and  meditating  on  him  as  a  subject  for  some 
future  histrionic  exercise  of  his  talent. 

But  his  voice  was  as  welcome  to  poor  Fred  as  daylight  in  a 
dungeon.  All  the  smothered  remorse  and  despair  of  his  heart 
burst  forth  in  bitter  confessions,  as,  with  many  tears,  he  poured 
forth  his  story  to  the  friendly  man.  It  needs  not  to  prolong 
our  story,  for  now  the  day  has  dawned  and  the  hour  of  release 
is  come. 

It  is  not  needful  to  carry  our  readers  through  all  the  steps 
by  which  Fred  was  transferred,  first  to  the  fireside  of  the 
friendly  missionary,  and  afterwards  to  the  guardian  care  of 
a  good  old  couple  who  resided  on  a  thriving  farm  not  far  from 
Cincinnati.  Set  free  from  evil  influences,  the  first  carefully 
planted  and  watered  seeds  of  good  began  to  grow  again,  and 
he  became  as  a  son  to  the  kind  family  who  had  adopted  him. 


THE  CANAL  BOAT. 


Of  all  the  ways  of  travelling  which  obtain  among  our  loco- 
motive nation,  this  said  vehicle,  the  canal  boat,  is  the  most 
absolutely  prosaic  and  inglorious.  There  is  something  pic- 
turesque, nay,  almost  sublime,  in  the  lordly  march  of  your 
well-built,  high-bred  steamboat.  Go,  take  your  stand  on  some 
overhanging  bluff,  where  the  blue  Ohio  winds  its  thread  of 
silver,  or  the  sturdy  Mississippi  tears  its  path  through  un- 
broken forests,  and  it  will  do  your  heart  good  to  see  the  gallant 
boat  walking  the  waters  with  unbroken  and  powerful  tread ; 
and,  like  some  fabled  monster  of  the  wave,  breathing  fire,  and 
making  the  shores  resound  with  its  deep  respirations.  Then 
there  is  something  mysterious,  even  awful,  in  the  power  of 
steam.  See  it  curling  up  against  a  blue  sky,  some  rosy 
morning  —  graceful,  floating,  intangible,  and  to  all  appearance 
the  softest  and  gentlest  of  all  spiritual  things ;  and  then  think 
that  it  is  this  fairy  spirit  that  keeps  all  the  world  alive  and 
hot  with  motion  ;  think  how  excellent  a  servant  it  is,  doing  all 
sorts  of  gigantic  works,  like  the  genii  of  old  ;  and  yet,  if  you  let 
slip  the  talisman  only  for  a  moment,  what  terrible  advantage 
it  will  take  of  you !  and  you  will  confess  that  steam  has  some 
claims  both  to  the  beautiful  and  the  terrible.  For  our  own 
25  *  (293) 


294  THE    CANAL    BOAT. 

part,  when  we  are  clown  among  the  machinery  of  a  steamboat 
in  full  play,  we  conduct  ourself  very  reverently,  for  we  con- 
sider it  as  a  very  serious  neighborhood ;  and  every  time  the 
steam  whizzes  with  such  red-hot  determination  from  the 
escape  valve,  we  start  as  if  some  of  the  spirits  were  after  us. 
But  in  a  canal  boat  there  is  no  power,  no  mystery,  no  danger ; 
one  cannot  blow  up,  one  cannot  be  drowned,  unless  by  some 
special  effort :  one  sees  clearly  all  there  is  in  the  case  — 
a  horse,  a  rope,  and  a  muddy  strip  of  water  —  and  that 
is   all. 

Did  you  ever  try  it,  reader  ?  If  not,  take  an  imaginary 
trip  with  us,  just  for  experiment.  "There's  the  boat!"  ex- 
claims a  passenger  in  the  omnibus,  as  we  are  rolling  down 
from  the  Pittsburg  Mansion  House  to  the  canal.  "  Where  ?  " 
exclaim  a  dozen  of  voices,  and  forthwith  a  dozen  heads  go  out 
of  the  window.  "  Why,  down  there,  under  that  bridge  ;  don't 
you  see  those  lights  ?  "  "  What !  that  little  thing  ?  "  exclaims 
an  inexperienced  traveller  ;  "  dear  me  !  wre  can't  half  of  us 
get  into  it ! "  "  We  !  indeed,"  says  some  old  hand  in  the 
business  ;  "  I  think  you'll  find  it  will  hold  us  and  a  dozen 
more  loads  like  us."  "  Impossible ! "  say  some.  "  You'll 
see,"  say  the  initiated  ;  and,  as  soon  as  you  get  out,  you  do 
see,  and  hear  too,  what  seems  like  a  general  breaking  loose 
from  the  Tower  of  Babel,  amid  a  perfect  hail  storm  of  trunks, 
boxes,  valises,  carpet  bags,  and  every  describable  and  inde- 
scribable form  of  what  a  westerner  calls  "plunder." 

"  That's  my  trunk  !  "  barks  out  a  big,  round  man.  "  That's 
my  bandbox  ! "  screams  a  heart-stricken  old  lady,  in  terror 
for  her  immaculate  Sunday  caps.  "  Where's  my  little  red 
box?  1  had  two  carpet  bags  and  a  —  My  trunk  had  a  scar- 
le  —     Halloo  !    where  are  you  going  with  that  portmanteau  ? 


THE    CANAL    BOAT.  295 

Husband !  husband !  do  see  after  the  large  basket  and  the 
little  hair  trunk  —  O,  and  the  baby's  little  chair  ! "  "  Go 
below  —  go  below,  for  mercy's  sake,  my  dear ;  I'll  see  to  the 
baggage."  At  last,  (he  feminine  part  of  creation,  perceiving 
that,  in  this  particular  instance,  they  gain  nothing  by  public 
speaking,  are  content  to  be  led  quietly  under  hatches ;  and 
amusing  is  the  look  of  dismay  which  each  new  comer  gives 
to  the  confined  quarters  that  present  themselves.  Those  who 
were  so  ignorant  of  the  power  of  compression  as  to  suppose 
the  boat  scarce  large  enough  to  contain  them  and  theirs,  find, 
with  dismay,  a  respectable  colony  of  old  ladies,  babies,  moth- 
ers, big  baskets,  and  carpet  bags  already  established.  "  Mercy 
on  us  ! "  says  one,  after  surveying  the  little  room,  about  ten 
feet  long  and  six  high,  "  where  are  we  all  to  sleep  to-night  ?  " 
"  O  me  !  what  a  sight  of  children  ! "  says  a  young  lady,  in  a 
despairing  tone.  "  Poh  !  "  says  an  initiated  traveller  ;  "  chil- 
dren !  scarce  any  here  ;  let's  see :  one ;  the  woman  in  the 
corner,  two  ;  that  child  with  the  bread  and  butter,  three  ;  and 
then  there's  that  other  woman  with  two.  Really,  it's  quite 
moderate  for  a  canal  boat.  However,  we  can't  tell  till  they 
have  all  come." 

"  All !  for  mercy's  sake,  you  don't  say  there  are  any  more 
coming  ! "  exclaim  two  or  three  in  a  breath ;  "  they  can't 
come  ;  there  is  not  room  !  " 

Notwithstanding  the  impressive  utterance  of  this  sentence, 
the  contrary  is  immediately  demonstrated  by  the  appearance 
of  a  very  corpulent,  elderly  lady,  with  three  well-grown  daugh- 
ters, who  come  down  looking  about  them  most  complacently, 
entirely  regardless  of  the  unchristian  looks  of  the  company. 
What  a  mercy  it  is  that  fat  people  are  always  good  natured  ! 

After  this  follows  an  indiscriminate   raining  down  of  all 


29G  THE    CANAL    BOAT. 

shapes,  sizes,  sexes,  and  ages  —  men,  women,  children,  babies, 
and  nurses.  The  state  of  feeling  becomes  perfectly  desperate. 
Darkness  gathers  on  all  faces.  "  We  shall  be  smothered  !  we 
shall  be  crowded  to  death !  we  cant  stay  here  ! "  are  heard 
faintly  from  one  and  another  ;  and  yet,  though  the  boat  grows 
no  wider,  the  walls  no  higher,  they  do  live,  and'  do  stay  there, 
in  spite  of  repeated  protestations  to  the  contrary.  Truly,  as 
Sam  Slick  says,  "  there's  a  sight  of  wear  in  human  natur'." 

But,  mean  while,  the  children  grow  sleepy,  and  divers  inter- 
esting little  duets  and  trios  arise  from  one  part  or  another  of 
the  cabin. 

"  Hush,  Johnny !  be  a  good  boy,"  says  a  pale,  nursing  mam- 
ma, to  a  great,  bristling,  white-headed  phenomenon,  who  is 
kicking  very  much  at  large  in  her  lap. 

"  I  won't  be  a  good  boy,  neither,"  responds  Johnny,  with 
interesting  explicitness ;  "  I  want  to  go  to  bed,  and  so-o-o-o  !  " 
and  Johnny  makes  up  a  mouth  as  big  as  a  teacup,  and  roars 
with  good  courage,  and  his  mamma  asks  him  "  if  he  ever  saw 
pa  do  so,"  and  tells  him  that  "  he  is  mamma's  dear,  good  little 
boy,  and  must  not  make  a  noise,"  with  various  observations 
of  the  kind,  which  are  so  strikingly  efficacious  in  such  cases. 
Meailwhile,  the  domestic  concert  in  other  quarters  proceeds 
with  vigor.  "  Mamma,  I'm  tired  !  "  bawls  a  child.  "  Where's 
the  baby's  night  gown  ?  "  calls  a  nurse.  "  Do  take  Peter  up 
in  your  lap,  and  keep  him  still."  "  Pray  get  out  some  biscuits 
to  stop  their  mouths."  Meanwhile,  sundry  babies  strike  in 
"  con  spirito,"  as  the  music  books  have  it,  and  execute  various 
flourishes ;  the  disconsolate  mothers  sigh,  and  look  as  if  all 
was  over  with  them  ;  and  the  young  ladies  appear  extremely 
disgusted,  and  wonder  "  what  business  women  have  to  be 
travelling  round  with  babies." 


THE    CANAL    BOAT.  297 

To  these  troubles  succeeds  the  turning-out  scene,  when  the 
whole  caravan  is  ejected  into  the  gentlemen's  cabin,  that  the 
beds  may  be  made.  The  red  curtains  are  put  down,  and  in 
solemn  silence  all,  the  last  mysterious  preparations  begin.  At 
length  it  is  announced  that  all  is  ready.  Forthwith  the  whole 
company  rush  back,  and  find  the  walls  embellished  by  a  series 
of  little  shelves,  about  a  foot  wide,  each  furnished  with  a  mat- 
tress and  bedding,  and  hooked  to  the  ceiling  by  a  very  sus- 
piciously slender  cord.  Direful  are  the  ruminations  and  ex- 
clamations of  inexperienced  travellers,  particularly  young 
ones,  as  they  eye  these  very  equivocal  accommodations. 
"  What,  sleep  up  there  !  /  won't  sleep  on  one  of  those  top 
shelves,  /  know.  The  cords  will  certainly  break."  The 
chambermaid  here  takes  up  the  conversation,  and  solemnly 
assures  them  that  such  an  accident  is  not  to  be  thought  of  at 
all ;  that  it  is  a  natural  impossibility  —  a  thing  that  could  not 
happen  without  an  actual  miracle ;  and  since  it  becomes  in- 
creasingly evident  that  thirty  ladies  cannot  all  sleep  on  the 
lowest  shelf,  there  is  some  effort  made  to  exercise  faith  in  this 
doctrine  ;  nevertheless,  all  look  on  their  neighbors  with  fear 
and  trembling ;  and  when  the  stout  lady  talks  of  taking  a 
shelf,  she  is  most  urgently  pressed  to  change  places  with  her 
alarmed  neighbor  below.  Points  of  location  being  after  a 
while  adjusted,  comes  the  last  struggle.  Every  body  wants  to 
take  off  a  bonnet,  or  look  for  a  shawl,  to  find  a  cloak, 
or  get  a  carpet  bag,  and  all  set  about  it  with  such  zeal 
that  nothing  can  be  done.  "  Ma'am,  you're  on  my  foot ! " 
says  one.  "  Will  you  please  to  move,  ma'am  ?  "  says  some- 
body, who  is  gasping  and  struggling  behind  you.  "  Move  !  " 
you  echo.  "  Indeed,  I  should  be  very  glad  to,  but  I  don't  see 
much  prospect  of  it."     "  Chambermaid  !  "  calls  a  lady,  who  is 


208  THE    CANAL    BOAT. 

struggling  among  a  heap  of  carpet  bags  and  children  at  one 
end  of  the  cabin.  "  Ma'am  !  "  echoes  the  poor  chambermaid, 
who  is  wedged  fast,  in  a  similar  situation,  at  the  other. 
"  Where's  my  cloak,  chambermaid  ?  "  "  I'd  find  it,  ma'am,  if 
I  could  move."  "  Chambermaid,  my  basket !  "  "  Chamber- 
maid, my  parasol !  "  "  Chambermaid,  my  carpet  bag  !  " 
"  Mamma,  they  push  me  so  !  "  "  Hush,  child  ;  crawl  under 
there,  and  lie  still  till  I  can  undress  you."  At  last,  however, 
the  various  distresses  are  over,  the  babies  sink  to  sleep,  and 
even  that  much-enduring  being,  the  chambermaid,  seeks  out 
some  corner  for  repose.  Tired  and  drowsy,  you  are  just 
sinking  into  a  doze,  when  bang !  goes  the  boat  against  the  sides 
of  a  lock ;  ropes  scrape,  men  run  and  shout,  and  up  fly  the 
heads  of  all  the  top  shelfites,  who  are  generally  the  more  ju- 
venile and  airy  part  of  the  company. 

"What's  that!  what's  that!"  flies  from  mouth  to  mouth;- 
and  forthwith  they  proceed  to  awaken  their  respective  rela- 
tions. "  Mother  !  Aunt  Hannah !  do  wake  up  ;  what  is  this 
awful  noise  ?  "  "  O,  only  a  lock  !  "  "  Pray  be  still,"  groan 
out  the  sleepy  members  from  below. 

"  A  lock  ! "  exclaim  the  vivacious  creatures,  ever  on  the 
alert  for  information  ;  "  and  what  is  a  lock,  pray  ?  " 

"  Don't  you  know  what  a  lock  is,  you  silly  creatures  ?  Do 
lie  down  and  go  to  sleep." 

"  But  say,  there  ain't  any  danger  in  a  lock,  is  there?"  re- 
spond the  querists.  "  Danger  ! "  exclaims  a  deaf  old  lady, 
poking  up  her  head;  "what's  the  matter?  There  hain't 
nothin' burst,  has  there?"  ""No,  no,  no  ! "  exclaim  the  pro- 
voked and  despairing  opposition  party,  who  find  that  there  is 
no  such  thing  as  going  to  sleep  till  they  have  made  the  old 
lady  below  and  the  young  ladies  above  understand  exactly 


THE    CANAL    COAT.  299 

the  philosophy  of  a  lock.  After  a  while  the  conversation 
again  subsides  ;  again  all  is  still ;  you  hear  only  the  trampling 
of  horses  and  the  rippling  of  the  rope  in  the  water,  and  sleep 
again  is  stealing  over  you.  You  doze,  you  dream,  and  all  of 
a  sudden  you  are  started  by  a  cry,  "  Chambermaid  !  wake  up 
the  lady  that  wants  to  be  set  ashore."  Up  jumps  chamber- 
maid, and  up  jump  the  lady  and  two  children,  and  forthwith 
form  a  committee  of  inquiry  as  to  ways  and  means.  "  Where's 
my  bonnet  ?  "  says  the  lady,  half  awake,  and  fumbling  among 
the  various  articles  of  that  name.  "I  thought  I  hung  it  up 
behind  the  door."  "  Can't  you  find  it  ?  "  says  poor  chamber- 
maid, yawning  and  rubbing  her  eyes.  "  O,  yes,  here  it  is," 
says  the  lady  ;  and  then  the  cloak,  the  shawl,  the  gloves,  the 
shoes,  receive  each  a  separate  discussion.  At  last  all  seems 
ready,  and  they  begin  to  move  off,  when,  lo  !  Peter's  cap  is 
missing.  "  Now,  where  can  it  be  ? "  soliloquizes  the  lady. 
"  I  put  it  right  here  by  the  table  leg  ;  maybe  it  got  into  some 
of  the  berths."  At  this  suggestion,  the  chambermaid  takes 
the  candle,  and  goes  round  deliberately  to  every  berth,  poking 
the  light  directly  in  the  face  of  every  sleeper.  "  Here  it  is," 
she  exclaims,  pulling  at  something  black  under  one  pillow. 
"  No,  indeed,  those  are  my  shoes,"  says  the  vexed  sleeper. 
"  Maybe  it's  here,"  she  resumes,  darting  upon  something  dark 
in  another  berth.  "  No,  that's  my  bag,"  responds  the  occu- 
pant. The  chambermaid  then  proceeds  to  turn  over  all  the 
children  on  the  floor,  to  see  if  it  is  not  under  them.  In  the 
course  of  which  process  they  are  most  agreeably  waked  up 
and  enlivened ;  and  when  every  body  is  broad  awake,  and 
most  uncharitably  wishing  the  cap,  and  Peter  too,  at  the 
bottom  of  the  canal,  the  good  lady  exclaims,  "  Well,  if  this 
isn't  lucky ;  here  I  had  it  safe  in  my  basket  all  the  time ! " 


300  THE    CANAL    BOAT. 

And  she  departs  amid  the  —  what  shall  I  say  ?  —  execrations  ? 
—  of  the  whole  company,  ladies  though  they  be. 

Well,  after  this  follows  a  hushing  up  and  wiping  up  among 
the  juvenile  population,  and  a  series  of  remarks  commences 
from  the  various  shelves,  of  a  very  edifying  and  instructive 
tendency.  One  says  that  the  woman  did  not  seem  to  know 
where  any  thing  was ;  another  says  that  she  has  waked  them 
all  up;  a  third  adds  that  she  has  waked  up  all  the  children, 
too  ;  and  the  elderly  ladies  make  moral  reflections  on  the  im- 
portance of  putting  your  things  where  you  can  find  them  — 
being  always  ready ;  which  observations,  being  delivered  in  an 
exceedingly  doleful  and  drowsy  tone,  form  a  sort  of  sub-bass 
to  the  lively  chattering  of  the  upper  shelfites,  who  declare 
that  they  feel  quite  wide  awake,  —  that  they  don't  think  they 
shall  go  to  sleep  again  to-night,  —  and  discourse,  over  every 
thing  in  creation,  until  you  heartily  wish  you  were  enough  re- 
lated to  them  to  give  them  a  scolding. 

At  last,  however,  voice  after  voice  drops  off;  you  fall  into 
a  most  refreshing  slumber ;  it  seems  to  you  that  you  sleep 
about  a  quarter  of  an  hour,  when  the  chambermaid  pulls  you 
by  the  sleeve.  "  Will  you  please  to  get  up,  ma'am  ?  We  want 
to  make  the  beds."  You  start  and  stare.  Sure  enough,  the 
night  is  gone.     So  much  for  sleeping  on  board  canal  boats. 

Let  us  not  enumerate  the  manifold  perplexities  of  the 
morning  toilet  in  a  place  where  every  lady  realizes  most  forci- 
bly the  condition  of  the  old  woman  who  lived  under  a  broom  : 
"  All  she  wanted  was  elbow  room."  Let  us  not  tell  how  one 
glass  is  made  to  answer  for  thirty  fair  faces,  one  ewer  and  vase 
for  thirty  lavations  ;  and  —  tell  it  not  in  Gath  !  —  one  towel 
for  a  company !  Let  us  not  intimate  how  ladies'  shoes  have, 
in  a  night,  clandestinely  slid  into  the  gentlemen's  cabin,  and 


THE    CANAL    BOAT.  301 

gentlemen's  boots  elbowed,  or,  rather,  toed  their  way  among 
ladies'  gear,  nor  recite  the  exclamations  after  runaway  proper- 
ty that  are  heard.  "  I  can't  find  nothin'  of  Johnny's  shoe  !  " 
"  Here's  a  shoe  in  the  water  pitcher  —  is  this  it  ?  "  "  My  side 
combs  are  gone  !  "  exclaims  a  nymph  with  dishevelled  curls. 
"  Massy  !  do  look  at  my  bonnet !  "  exclaims  an  old  lady,  ele- 
vating an  article  crushed  into  as  many  angles  as  there  are 
pieces  in  a  minced  pie.  "  I  never  did  sleep  so  much  together 
in  my  life,"  echoes  a  poor  little  French  lady,  whom  despair  has 
driven  into  talking  English. 

But  our  shortening  paper  warns  us  not  to  prolong  our  cata- 
logue of  distresses  beyond  reasonable  bounds,  and  therefore 
we  will  close  with  advising  all  our  friends,  who  intend  to  try 
this  way  of  travelling  for  pleasure,  to  take  a  good  stock  both 
of  patience  and  clean  towels  with  them,  for  we  think  that  they 
will  find  abundant  need  for  both. 
26 


FEELING. 


There  is  one  way  of  studying  human  nature,  which  sur- 
veys mankind  only  as  a  set  of  instruments  for  the  accomplish- 
ment of  personal  plans.  There  is  another,  which  regards  them 
simply  as  a  gallery  of  pictures,  to  be  admired  or  laughed  at 
as  the  caricature  or  the  beau  ideal  predominates.  A  third 
way  regards  them  as  human  beings,  having  hearts  that  can 
suffer  and  enjoy,  that  can  be  improved  or  be  ruined  ;  as  those 
who  are  linked  to  us  by  mysterious  reciprocal  influences,  by 
the  common  dangers  of  a  present  existence,  and  the  uncertain- 
ties of  a  future  one ;  as  presenting,  wherever  we  meet  them, 
claims  on  our  sympathy  and  assistance. 

Those  who  adopt  the  last  method  are  interested  in  human 
beings,  not  so  much  by  present  attractions  as  by  their  capa- 
bilities as  intelligent,  immortal  beings  ;  by  a  high  belief  of 
what  every  mind  may  attain  in  an  immortal  existence ;  by 
anxieties  for  its  temptations  and  dangers,  and  often  by  the 
perception  of  errors  and  faults  which  threaten  its  ruin.  The 
first  two  modes  are  adopted  by  the  great  mass  of  society; 
the  last  is  the  office  of  those  few  scattered  stars  in  the  sky  of 
life,  who  look  down  on  its  dark  selfishness  to  remind  us  that 
there  is  a  world  of  light  and  love. 

(302) 


FEELING.  303 

To  this  class  did  He  belong,  whose  rising  and  setting  on 
earth  were  for  "  the  healing  of  the  nations  ;  "  and  to  this  class 
has  belonged  many  a  pure  and  devoted  spirit,  like  him  shin- 
ing to  cheer,  like  him  fading  away  into  the  heavens.  To  this 
class  many  a  one  wishes  to  belong,  who  has  an  eye  to  distin- 
guish the  divinity  of  virtue,  without  the  resolution  to  attain  it ; 
who,  while  they  sweep  along  with  the  selfish  current  of  socie- 
ty, still  regret  that  society  is  not  different  —  that  they  them- 
selves are  not  different.  If  this  train  of  thought  has  no  very 
particular  application  to  what  follows,  it  was  nevertheless  sug- 
gested by  it,  and  of  its  relevancy  others  must  judge. 

Look  into  this  school  room.  It  is  a  warm,  sleepy  afternoon 
in  July  ;  there  is  scarcely  air  enough  to  stir  the  leaves  of  the 
tall  buttonwood  tree  before  the  door,  or  to  lift  the  loose  leaves 
of  the  copy  book  in  the  window ;  the  sun  has  been  diligently 
shining  into  those  curtainless  west  windows  ever  since  three 
o'clock,  upon  those  blotted  and  mangled  desks,  and  those  de- 
crepit and  tottering  benches,  and  that  great  arm  chair,  the 
high  place  of  authority. 

You  can  faintly  hear,  about  the  door,  the  "  craw,  craw,"  of 
some  neighboring  chickens,  which  have  stepped  around  to  con- 
sider the  dinner  baskets,  and  pick  up  the  crumbs  of  the  noon's 
repast.  For  a  marvel,  the  busy  school  is  still,  because,  in 
truth,  it  is  too  warm  to  stir.  You  will  find  nothing  to  disturb 
your  meditation  on  character,  for  you  cannot  hear  the  beat  of 
those  little  hearts,  nor  the  bustle  of  all  those  busy  thoughts. 

Now  look  around.     Who  of  these  is  the  most  interesting  ? 

o 

Is  it  that  tall,  slender,  hazel-eyed  boy,  with  a  glance  like  a 
falcon,  whose  elbows  rest  on  his  book  as  he  gazes  out  on  the 
great  buttonwood  tree,  and  is  calculating  how  he  shall  fix 
his  squirrel  trap  when  school  is  out  ?     Or  is  it  that  curly- 


304  FEELING. 

headed  little  rogue,  who  is  shaking  with  repressed  laughter  at 
seeing  a  chicken  roll  over  in  a  dinner  basket  ?  Or  is  it  that 
arch  boy  with  black  eyelashes,  and  deep,  mischievous  dimple 
in  his  cheeks,  who  is  slyly  fixing  a  fish  hook  to  the  skirts  of  the 
master's  coat,  yet  looking  as  abstracted  as  Archimedes  when- 
ever the  good  man  turns  his  head  that  way  ?  No ;  these  are 
intelligent,  bright,  beautiful,  but  it  is  not  these. 

Perhaps,  then,  it  is  that  sleepy  little  girl,  with  golden  curls, 
and  a  mouth  like  a  half-blown  rosebud.  See,  the  small 
brass  thimble  has  fallen  to  the  floor,  her  patchwork  drops  from 
her  lap,  her  blue  eyes  close  like  two  sleepy  violets,  her  little 
head  is  nodding,  and  she  sinks  on  her  sister's  shoulder  :  surely 
it  is  she.     No,  it  is  not. 

But  look  in  that  corner.  Do  you  see  that  boy  with  such  a 
gloomy  countenance  —  so  vacant,  yet  so  ill  natured  ?  He  is 
doing  nothing,  and  he  very  seldom  does  any  thing.  He  is 
surly  and  gloomy  in  his  looks  and  actions.  He  never  showed 
any  more  aptitude  for  saying  or  doing  a  pretty  thing  than  his 
straight  white  hair  does  for  curling.  He  is  regularly  blamed 
and  punished  every  day,  and  the  more  he  is  blamed  and  pun- 
ished, the  worse  he  grows.  None  of  the  boys  and  girls  in 
school  will  play  with  him  ;  or,  if  they  do,  they  will  be  sorry  for 
it.  And  every  day  the  master  assures  him  that  "  he  does  not 
know  what  to  do  with  him,"  and  that  he  "  makes  him  more  trou- 
ble than  any  boy  in  school,"  with  similar  judicious  information, 
that  has  a  striking  tendency  to  promote  improvement.  That  is 
the  boy  to  whom  I  apply  the  title  of  "  the  most  interesting  one." 

He  is  interesting  because  he  is  not  pleasing;  because  he  has 
bad  habits  ;  because  he  does  wrong  ;  because,  under  present 
influences,  he  is  always  likely  to  do  wrong.  He  is  interesting 
because  he  has  become  what  he  is  now  by  means  of  the  very 


FEELING. 


305 


temperament  which  often  makes  the  noblest  virtue.  It  is 
feeling,  acuteness  of  feeling,  which  has  given  that  countenance 
its  expression,  that  character  its  moroseness. 

He  has  no  father,  and  that  long-suffering  friend,  his  mother, 
is  gone  too.  Yet  he  has  relations,  and  kind  ones  too ;  and,  in 
the  compassionate  language  of  worldly  charity,  it  may  be  said 
of  him,  "  He  would  have  nothing  of  which  to  complain,  if  he 
would  only  behave  himself." 

His  little  sister  is  always  bright,  always  pleasant  and  cheer- 
ful ;  and  his  friends  say,  "  Why  should  not  he  be  so  too  ?  He 
is  in  exactly  the  same  circumstances."  No,  he  is  not.  In  one 
circumstance  they  differ.  He  has  a  mind  to  feel  and  remem- 
ber every  thing  that  can  pain ;  she  can  feel  and  remember 
but  little.  If  you  blame  him,  he  is  exasperated,  gloomy,  and 
cannot  forget  it.  If  you  blame  her,  she  can  say  she  has 
done  wrong  in  a  moment,  and  all  is  forgotten.  Her  mind  can 
no  more  be  wounded  than  the  little  brook  where  she  loves  to 
play.  The  bright  waters  close  again,  and  smile  and  prattle 
as  merry  as  before. 

Which  is  the  most  desirable  temperament  ?  It  would  be 
hard  to  say.  The  power  of  feeling  is  necessary  for  all  that  is 
noble  in  man,  and  yet  it  involves  the  greatest  risks.  They 
who  catch  at  happiness  on  the  bright  surface  of  things,  secure 
a  portion,  such  as  it  is,  with  more  certainty ;  those  who  dive 
for  it  in  the  waters  of  deeper  feeling,  if  they  succeed,  will  bring 
up  pearls  and  diamonds,  but  if  they  sink  they  are  lost  forever  ! 

But  now  comes  Saturday,  and  school  is  just  out.  Can  any 
one  of  my  readers  remember  the  rapturous  prospect  of  a  long, 
bright  Saturday  afternoon?  "  Where  are  you  going?"  "Will 
you  come  and  see  me  ?  "  "  We  are  going  a  fishing  !  "  "  Let 
us  go  a  strawberrying  !  "  may  be  heard  rising  from  the  happy 
26* 


30G 


FEELING. 


group.  But  no  one  comes  near  the  ill-humored  James,  and 
the  little  party  going  to  visit  his  sister  "  wish  James  was  out 
of  the  way."  He  sees  every  motion,  hears  every  whisper, 
knows,  suspects,  feels  it  all,  and  turns  to  go  home  more  sullen 
and  ill  tempered  than  common.  The  world  looks  dark  —  no- 
body loves  him  —  and  he  is  told  that  it  is  "  all  his  own  fault," 
and  that  makes  the  matter  still  worse. 

When  the  little  party  arrive,  he  is  suspicious  and  irritable, 
and,  of  course,  soon  excommunicated.  Then,  as  he  stands  in 
disconsolate  anger,  looking  over  the  garden  fence  at  the  gay 
group  making  dandelion  chains,  and  playing  baby  house  under 
the  trees,  he  wonders  why  he  is  not  like  other  children.  He 
wishes  he  were  different,  and  yet  he  does  not  know  what  to 
do.  He  looks  around,  and  every  thing  is  blooming  and  bright. 
His  little  bed  of  flowers  is  even  brighter  and  sweeter  than 
ever  before,  and  a  new  rose  is  just  opening  on  his  rosebush. 

There  goes  pussy,  too,  racing  and  scampering,  with  little 
Ellen  after  her,  in  among  the  alleys  and  flowers;  and  the 
birds  are  singing  in  the  trees ;  and  the  soft  winds  brush  the 
blossoms  of  the  sweet  pea  against  his  cheek ;  and  yet,  though 
all  nature  looks  on  him  so  kindly,  he  is  wretched. 

Let  us  now  change  the  scene.  Why  is  that  crowded  assem- 
bly so  attentive  —  so  silent  ?  Who  is  speaking  ?  It  is  our 
old  friend,  the  little  disconsolate  schoolboy.  But  his  eyes  are 
flashing  with  intellect,  his  face  fervent  with  emotion,  his  voice 
breathes  like  music,  and  every  mind  is  enchained. 

Again,  it  is  a  splendid  sunset,  and  yonder  enthusiast  meets 
it  face  to  face,  as  a  friend.  He  is  silent  —  rapt  —  happy, 
lie  feels  the  poetry  which  God  has  written ;  he  is  touched  by 
it,  as  God  meant  that  the  feeling  spirit  should  be  touched. 

Again,  he  is  watching  by  the  bed  of  sickness,  and  it  is 


FEELING.  307 

blessed  to  have  such  a  watcher !  anticipating  every  want ; 
relieving,  not  in  a  cold,  uninterested  way,  but  with  the  quick 
perceptions,  the  tenderness,  the  gentleness  of  an  angel. 

Follow  him  into  the  circle  of  friendship,  and  why  is  he  so 
loved  and  trusted  ?  Why  can  you  so  easily  tell  to  him  what 
you  can  say  to  no  one  else  besides  ?  Why  is  it  that  all  around 
him  feel  that  he  can  understand,  appreciate,  be  touched  by  all 
that  touches  them  ? 

And  when  heaven  uncloses  its  doors  of  light,  when  all 
its  knowledge,  its  purity,  its  bliss,  rises  on  the  eye  and  passes 
into  the  soul,  who  then  will  be  looked  on  as  the  one  who  might 
be  envied  —  he  who  ca?i,  or  he  who  cannot  feel? 


THE    SEAMSTEESS. 


"  Few,  save  the  poor,  feel  for  the  poor  ; 
The  rich  know  not  how  hard 
It  is  to  be  of  needful  food 
And  needful  rest  debarred. 

Their  paths  are  paths  of  plenteousness ; 

They  sleep  on  silk  and  down ; 
They  never  think  how  wearily 

The  weary  head  lies  down. 

They  never  by  the  window  sit, 

And  see  the  gay  pass  by, 
Yet  take  their  weary  work  again, 

And  with  a  mournful  eye." 

L.  E.  L. 

However  fine  and  elevated,  in  a  sentimental  point  of  view, 
may  have  been  the  poetry  of  this  gifted  writer,  we  think  we 
have  never  seen  any  thing  from  this  source  that  ought  to  give 
a  better  opinion  of  her  than  the  little  ballad  from  which  the 
above  verses  are  taken. 

They  show  that  the  accomplished  authoress  possessed,  not 
merely  a  knowledge  of  the  dreamy  ideal  wants  of  human 
beings,  but  the  more  pressing  and  homely  ones,  which  the 
fastidious  and  poetical  are  %  often  the  last  to  appreciate.     The 

(308) 


THE    SEAMSTRESS.  309 

sufferings  of  poverty  are  not  confined  to  those  of  the  common, 
squalid,  every  day  inured  to  hardships,  and  ready,  with  open 
hand,  to  receive  charity,  let  it  come  to  them  as  it  will.  There 
is  another  class  on  whom  it  presses  with  still  heavier  power  — 
the  generous,  the  decent,  the  self-respecting,  who  have  strug- 
gled with  their  lot  in  silence,  "  bearing  all  things,  hoping  all 
things,"  and  willing  to  endure  all  things,  rather  than  breathe  a 
word  of  complaint,  or  to  acknowledge,  even  to  themselves, 
that  their  own  efforts  will  not  be  sufficient  for  their  own 
necessities. 

Pause  with  me  a  while  at  the  door  of  yonder  room, 
whose  small  window  overlooks  a  little  court  below.  It  is  in- 
habited by  a  widow  and  her  daughter,  dependent  entirely  on 
the  labors  of  the  needle,  and  those  other  slight  and  precari- 
ous resources,  which  are  all  that  remain  to  woman  when  left 
to  struggle  her  way  through  the  world  alone.  It  contains 
all  their  small  earthly  store,  and  there  is  scarce  an  article  of 
its  little  stock  of  furniture  that  has  not  been  thought  of,  and 
toiled  for,  and  its  price  calculated  over  and  over  again,  be- 
fore every  thing  could  be  made  right  for  its  purchase.  Every 
article  is  arranged  with  the  utmost  neatness  and  care  ;  nor  is 
the  most  costly  furniture  of  a  fashionable  parlor  more  sedulous- 
ly guarded  from  a  scratch  or  a  rub,  than  is  that  brightly- 
varnished  bureau,  and  that  neat  cherry  tea  table  and  bedstead. 
The  floor,  too,  boasted  once  a  carpet ;  but  old  Time  has  been 
busy  with  it,  picking  a  hole  here,  and  making  a  thin  place 
there ;  and  though  the  old  fellow  has  been  followed  up  by  the 
most  indefatigable  zeal  in  darning,  the  marks  of  his  mischiev- 
ous fingers  are  too  plain  to  be  mistaken.  It  is  true,  a  kindly 
neighbor  has  given  a  bit  of  faded  baize,  which  has  been  neat- 
ly clipped  and  bound,  and  spread    down   over   an    entirely 


310  THE    SEAMSTRESS. 

unmanageable  hole  in  front  of  the  fireplace  ;  and  other  places 
have  been  repaired  with  pieces  of  different  colors ;  and  yet, 
after  all,  it  is  evident  that  the  poor  carpet  is  not  long  for  this 
world. 

But  the  best  face  is  put  upon  every  thing.  The  little  cup- 
board in  the  corner,  that  contains  a  few  china  cups,  and  one 
or  two  antiquated  silver  spoons,  relics  of  better  days,  is  ar- 
ranged with  jealous  neatness,  and  the  white  muslin  window 
curtain,  albeit  the  muslin  be  old,  has  been  carefully  whitened 
and  starched,  and  smoothly  ironed,  and  put  up  with  exact 
precision ;  and  on  the  bureau,  covered  by  a  snowy  cloth,  are 
arranged  a  few  books  and  other  memorials  of  former  times, 
and  a  faded  miniature,  which,  though  it  have  little  about  it  to 
interest  a  stranger,  is  more  precious  to  the  poor  widow  than 
every  thing  besides. 

Mrs.  Ames  is  seated  in  her  rocking  chair,  supported  by  a 
pillow,  and  busy  cutting  out  work,  while  her  daughter,  a  slen- 
der, sickly-looking  girl,  is  sitting  by  the  window,  intent  on 
some  fine  stitching. 

Mrs.  Ames,  in  former  days,  was  the  wife  of  a  respectable 
merchant,  and  the  mother  of  an  affectionate  family.  But  evil 
fortune  had  followed  her  with  a  steadiness  that  seemed  like 
the  stern  decree  of  some  adverse  fate  rather  than  the  ordinary 
dealings  of  a  merciful  Providence.  First  came  a  heavy  run 
of  losses  in  business  ;  then  long  and  expensive  sickness  in  the 
family,  and  the  death  of  children.  Then  there  was  the  selling 
of  the  large  house  and  elegant  furniture,  to  retire  to  a  humbler 
style  of  living ;  and  finally,  the  sale  of  all  the  property,  with 
the  view  of  quitting  the  shores  of  a  native  land,  and  com- 
mencing life  again  in  a  new  one.  But  scarcely  had  the  exiled 
family  found  themselves  in  the  port  of  a  foreign  land,  when 


THE    SEAMSTRESS.  311 

the  father  was  suddenly  smitten  down  by  the  hand  of  death, 
and  his  lonely  grave  made  in  a  land  of  strangers.  The  widow, 
broken-hearted  and  discouraged,  had  still  a  wearisome  journey 
before  her  ere  she  could  reach  any  whom  she  could  consider 
as  her  friends.  With  her  two  daughters,  entirely  unattended, 
and  with  her  finances  impoverished  by  detention  and  sickness, 
she  performed  the  tedious  journey. 

Arrived  at  the  place  of  her  destination,  she  found  herself 
not  only  without  immediate  resources,  but  considerably  in  debt 
to  one  who  had  advanced  money  for  her  travelling  expenses. 
With  silent  endurance  she  met  the  necessities  of  her  situation. 
Her  daughters,  delicately  reared,  and  hitherto  carefully  edu- 
cated, were  placed  out  to  service,  and  Mrs.  Ames  sought  for 
employment  as  a  nurse.  The  younger  child  fell  sick,  and  the 
hard  earnings  of  the  mother  were  all  exhausted  in  the  care 
of  her ;  and  though  she  recovered  in  part,  she  was  declared 
by  her  physician  to  be  the  victim  of  a  disease  which  would 
never  leave  her  till  it  terminated  her  life. 

As  soon,  however,  as  her  daughter  was  so  far  restored  as 
not  to  need  her  immediate  care,  Mrs.  Ames  resumed  her  labo- 
rious employment.  Scarcely  had  she  been  able,  in  this  way, 
to  discharge  the  debts  for  her  journey  and  to  furnish  the  small 
room  we  have  described,  when  the  hand  of  disease  was  laid 
heavily  on  herself.  Too  resolute  and  persevering  to  give  way 
to  the  first  attacks  of  pain  and  weakness,  she  still  continued 
her  fatiguing  employment  till  her  system  was  entirely  pros- 
trated. Thus  all  possibility  of  pursuing  her  business  was  cut 
off,  and  nothing  remained  but  what  could  be  accomplished 
by  her  own  and  her  daughter's  dexterity  at  the  needle. 
It  is  at  this  time  we  ask  you  to  look  in  upon  the  mother 
and  daughter. 


312  TIIE    SEAMSTRESS. 

Mrs.  Ames  is  sitting  up,  the  first  time  for  a  week,  and  even 
to-day  she  is  scarcely  fit  to  do  so  ;  but  she  remembers  that 
the  month  is  coming  round,  and  her  rent  will  soon  be  due  ; 
and  in  her  feebleness  she  will  stretch  every  nerve  to  meet 
her  engagements  with  punctilious  exactness. 

Wearied  at  length  with  cutting  out,  and  measuring,  and 
drawing  threads,  she  leans  back  in  her  chair,  and  her  eye 
rests  on  the  pale  face  of  her  daughter,  who  has  been  sitting 
for  two  hours  intent  on  her  stitching. 

"  Ellen,  my  child,  your  head  aches ;  don't  work  so 
steadily." 

"  O,  no,  it  don't  ache  much"  said  she,  too  conscious  of  look- 
ing very  much  tired.  Poor  girl !  had  she  remained  in  the 
situation  in  which  she  was  born,  she  would  now  have  been 
skipping  about,  and  enjoying  life  as  other  young  girls  of  fifteen 
do  ;  but  now  there  is  no  choice  of  employments  for  her  — 
no  youthful  companions  —  no  visiting  —  no  pleasant  walks  in 
Ihe  fresh  air.  Evening  and  morning,  it  is  all  the  same  ;  head- 
ache or  sideache,  it  is  all  one.  She  must  hold  on  the  same 
unvarying  task  —  a  wearisome  tiling  for  a  girl  of  fifteen. 

But  see  !  the  door  opens,  and  Mrs.  Ames's  face  brightens 
as  her  other  daughter  enters.  Mary  has  become  a  domestic 
in  a  neighboring  family,  where  her  faithfulness  and  kindness 
of  heart  have  caused  her  to  be  regarded  more  as  a  daughter 
and  a  sister  than  as  a  servant.  "  Here,  mother,  is  your  rent 
money,"  she  exclaimed  ;  "  so  do  put  up  your  work  and  rest 
a  while.  I  can  get  enough  to  pay  it  next  time  before  the 
month  comes  around  again." 

"  Dear  child,  I  do  wish  you  would  ever  think  to  get  any 
thing  for  yourself,"  said  Mrs.  Ames.  "  I  cannot  consent  to 
use  up  all  your  earnings,  as  I  have  done  lately,  and  all  Ellen's 


THE    SEAMSTRESS.  313 

too ;  you  must  have  a  new  dress  this  spring,  and  that  bonnet 
of  yours  is  not  decent  any  longer." 

"  O,  no,  mother !  I  have  made  over  my  blue  calico,  and  you 
would  be  surprised  to  see  how  well  it  looks ;  and  my  best 
frock,  when  it  is  washed  and  darned,  will  answer  some  time 
longer.  And  then  Mrs.  Grant  has  given  me  a  ribbon,  and 
when  my  bonnet  is  whitened  and  trimmed  it  will  look  very 
well.  And  so,"  she  added,  "  I  brought  you  some  wine  this 
afternoon ;  you  know  the  doctor  says  you  need  wine." 

"  Dear  child,  I  want  to  see  you  take  some  comfort  of  your 
money  yourself." 

"  Well,  I  do  take  comfort  of  it,  mother.  It  is  more  comfort 
to  be  able  to  help  you  than  to  wear  all  the  finest  dresses  in 
the  world." 

Two  months  from  this  dialogue  found  our  little  family  still 
more  straitened  and  perplexed.  Mrs.  Ames  had  been  con- 
fined all  the  time  with  sickness,  and  the  greater  part  of  Ellon's 
time  and  strength  was  occupied  with  attending  to  her. 

Very  little  sewing  could  the  poor  girl  now  do,  in  the  bro- 
ken intervals  that  remained  to  her ;  and  the  wages  of  Mary 
were  not  only  used  as  fast  as  earned,  but  she  anticipated  two 
months  in  advance. 

Mrs.  Ames  had  been  better  for  a  day  or  two,  and  had 
been  sitting  up,  exerting  all  her  strength  to  finish  a  set  of 
shirts  which  had  been  sent  in  to  make.  "  The  money  for  them 
will  just  pay  our  rent,"  sighed  she  ;  "  and  if  we  can  do  a  little 
more  this  week " 

"  Dear  mother,  you  are  so  tired,"  said  Ellen  ;  "  do  lie  down, 
and  not  worry  any  more  till  I  come  back." 

Ellen  went  out,  and  passed  on  till  she  came  to  the  door  of 
27 


314  THE    SEAMSTRESS. 

an  elegant  house,  whose  damask  and  muslin  window  curtains 
indicated  a  fashionable  residence. 

Mrs.  Elmore  was  sitting  in  her  splendidly-furnished  parlor, 
and  around  her  lay  various  fancy  articles  which  two  young 
girls  were  busily  unrolling.  "What  a  lovely  pink  scarf!" 
said  one,  throwing  it  over  her  shoulders  and  skipping  before 
a  mirror  ;  while  the  other  exclaimed,  "  Do  look  at  these  pock- 
et handkerchiefs,  mother  !  what  elegant  lace  !  " 

"  Well,  girls,"  said  Mrs.  Elmore,  "  these  handkerchiefs  are 
a  shameful  piece  of  extravagance.  I  wonder  you  will  insist 
on  having  such  things." 

"  La,  mamma,  every  body  has  such  now  ;  Laura  Seymour 
has  half  a  dozen  that  cost  more  than  these,  and  her  father  is 
no  richer  than  ours." 

"  Well,"  said  Mrs.  Elmore,  "  rich  or  not  rich,  it  seems  to 
make  very  little  odds ;  we  do  not  seem  to  have  half  as  much 
money  to  spare  as  we  did  when  we  lived  in  the  little  house  in 
Spring  Street.  What  with  new  furnishing  the  house,  and 
getting  every  thing  you  boys  and  girls  say  you  must  have,  we 
are  poorer,  if  any  thing,  than  we  were  then." 

"  Ma'am,  here  is  Mrs.  Ames's  girl  come  with  some  sewing," 
said  the  servant. 

"  Show  her  in,"  said  Mrs.  Elmore. 

Ellen  entered  timidly,  and  handed  her  bundle  of  work  to 
Mrs.  Elmore,  who  forthwith  proceeded  to  a  minute  scrutiny  of 
the  articles ;  for  she  prided  herself  on  being  very  particular 
as  to  her  sewing.  But,  though  the  work  had  been  executed 
by  feeble  hands  and  aching  eyes,  even  Mrs.  Elmore  could  de- 
tect no  fault  in  it. 

<l  Well,  it  is  very  prettily  done,"  said  she.  "  What  does 
your  mother  charge  ?  " 


THE    SEAMSTRESS.  315 

Ellen  handed  a  neatly-folded  bill  which  she  had  drawn  for 
her  mother.  "  I  must  say,  I  think  your  mother's  prices  arc 
very  high,"  said  Mrs.  Elmore,  examining  her  nearly  empty 
purse  ;  "  every  thing  is  getting  so  dear  that  one  hardly  knows 
how  to  live."  Ellen  looked  at  the  fancy  articles,  and  glanced 
around  the  room  with  an  air  of  innocent  astonishment. 
"  Ah,"  said  Mrs.  Elmore,  "  I  dare  say  it  seems  to  you  as  if 
persons  in  our  situation  had  no  need  of  economy ;  but,  for  my 
part,  I  feel  the  need  of  it  more  and  more  every  day."  As 
she  spoke  she  handed  Ellen  the  three  dollars,  which,  though 
it  was  not  a  quarter  the  price  of  one  of  the  handkerchiefs, 
was  all  that  she  and  her  sick  mother  could  claim  in  the  world. 

"  There,"  said  she  ;  "  tell  your  mother  I  like  her  work  very 
much,  but  I  do  not  think  I  can  afford  to  employ  her,  if  I  can 
find  any  one  to  work  cheaper." 

Now,  Mrs.  Elmore  was  not  a  hard-hearted  woman,  and  if 
Ellen  had  come  as  a  beggar  to  solicit  help  for  her  sick  mother, 
Mrs.  Elmore  would  have  fitted  out  a  basket  of  provisions,-  and 
sent  a  bottle  of  wine,  and  a  bundle  of  old  clothes,  and  all  the 
et  cetera  of  such  occasions  ;  but  the  sight  of  a  bill  always 
aroused  all  the  instinctive  sharpness  of  her  business-like  edu- 
cation. She  never  had  the  dawning  of  an  idea  that  it  was  her 
duty  to  pay  any  body  any  more  than  she  could  possibly  help ; 
nay,  she  had  an  indistinct  notion  that  it  was  her  duty  as  an 
economist  to  make  every  body  take  as  little  as  possible. 
When  she  and  her  daughters  lived  in  Spring  Street,  to  which 
she  had  alluded,  they  used  to  spend  the  greater  part  of  their 
time  at  home,  and  the  family  sewing  was  commonly  done 
among  themselves.  But  since  they  had  moved  into  a  large 
house,  and  set  up  a  carriage,  and  addressed  themselves  to  be- 
ing genteel,  the  girls  found  that  they  had  altogether  too  much 


316  THE    SEAMSTRESS. 

to  do  to  attend  to  their  own  sewing,  much  less  to  perform  any 
for  their  father  and  brothers.  And  their  mother  found  her 
hands  abundantly  full  in  overlooking  her  large  house,  in  taking 
care  of  expensive  furniture,  and  in  superintending  her  in- 
creased train  of  servants.  The  sewing,  therefore,  was  put 
out ;  and  Mrs.  Elmore  felt  it  a  duty  to  get  it  done  the  cheap- 
est way  she  could.  Nevertheless,  Mrs.  Elmore  was  too  nota- 
ble a  lady,  and  her  sons  and  daughters  were  altogether  too 
fastidious  as  to  the  make  and  quality  of  their  clothing,  to  ad- 
mit the  idea  of  its  being  done  in  any  but  the  most  complete 
and  perfect  manner. 

Mrs.  Elmore  never  accused  herself  of  want  of  charity  for 
the  poor ;  but  she  had  never  considered  that  the  best  class  of 
the  poor  are  those  who  never  ask  charity.  She  dijd  not  con- 
sider that,  by  paying  liberally  those  who  were  honestly  and  in- 
dependently struggling  for  themselves,  she  was  really  doing  a 
greater  charity  than  by  giving  indiscriminately  to  a  dozen  ap- 
plicants. 

"  Don't  you  think,  mother,  she  says  we  charge  too  high  for 
this  work  !  "  said  Ellen,  when  she  returned.  "  I  am  sure  she 
did  not  know  how  much  work  we  put  in  those  shirts.  She  says 
she  cannot  give  us  any  more  work  ;  she  must  look  out  for  some- 
body that  will  do  it  cheaper.  I  do  not  see  how  it  is  that  people 
who  live  in  such  houses,  and  have  so  many  beautiful  things,  can 
feel  that  they  cannot  afford  to  pay  for  what  costs  us  so  much." 

"  "Well,  child,  they  are  more  apt  to  feel  so  than  people  who 
live  plainer." 

"  Well,  I  am  sure,"  said  Ellen,  "  we  cannot  afford  to  spend 
so  much  time  as  we  have  over  these  shirts  for  less  money." 

"  Never  mind,  my  dear,"  said  the  mother,  soothingly ; 
"  here  is  a  bundle  of  work  that  another  lady  has  sent  in,  and 


THE    SEAMSTRESS.  317 

if  we  get  it  done,  we  shall  have  enough  for  our  rent,  and  some- 
thing over  to  buy  bread  with." 

It  is  needless  to  cany  our  readers  over  all  the  process 
of  cutting,  and  fitting,  and  gathering,  and  stitching,  necessary 
in  making  up  six  fine  shirts.  Suffice  it  to  say  that  on  Satur- 
day evening  all  but  one  were  finished,  and  Ellen  proceeded 
to  carry  them  home,  promising  to  bring  the  remaining  one  on 
Tuesday  morning.  The  lady  examined  the  work,  and  gave 
Ellen  the  money  ;  but  on  Tuesday,  when  the  child  came  with 
the  remaining  work,  she  found  her  in  great  ill  humor.  Upon 
reexamining  the  shirts,  she  had  discovered  that  in  some  im- 
portant respects  they  differed  from  directions  she  meant  to 
have  given,  and  supposed  she  had  given ;  and,  accordingly, 
she  vented  her  displeasure  on  Ellen. 

"  Why  didn't  you  make  these  shirts  as  I  told  you  ?  "  said 
she,  sharply. 

"  We  did,"  said  Ellen,  mildly ;  "  mother  measured  by  the 
pattern  every  part,  and  cut  them  herself." 

"  Your  mother  must  be  a  fool,  then,  to  make  such  a  piece 
of  work.  I  wish  you  would  just  take  them  back  and  alter 
them  over ;  "  and  the  lady  proceeded  with  the  directions,  of 
which  neither  Ellen  nor  her  mother  till  then  had  had  any  inti- 
mation. Unused  to  such  language,  the  frightened  Ellen  took 
up  her  work  and  slowly  walked  homeward. 

"  O,  dear,  how  my  head  does  ache  !  "  thought  she  to  herself; 
"  and  poor  mother !  she  said  this  morning  she  was  afraid  an- 
other of  her  sick  turns  was  coming  on,  and  we  have  all  this 
work  to  pull  out  and  do  over." 

"  See  here,  mother,"  said  she,  with  a  disconsolate  air,  as 
she  entered  the  room  ;  "  Mrs.  Rudd  says,  take  out  all  the 
bosoms,  and  rip  off  all  the  collars,  and  fix  them  quite  an- 
27* 


318  THE    SEAMSTRESS. 

oilier  way.  She  says  they  are  not  like  the  pattern  she  sent ; 
but  she  must  have  forgotten,  for  here  it  is.  Look,  mother  ;  it 
is  exactly  as  we  made  them." 

"  Well,  my  child,  carry  back  the  pattern,  and  show  her  that 
it  is  so." 

"  Indeed,  mother,  she  spoke  so  cross  to  me,  and  looked  at 
me  so,  that  I  do  not  feel  as  if  I  could  go  back." 

"  I  will  go  for  you,  then,"  said  the  kind  Maria  Stephens, 
who  had  been  sitting  with  Mrs.  Ames  while  Ellen  was  out. 
"  I  will  take  the  pattern  and  shirts,  and  tell  her  the  exact 
truth  about  it.  I  am  not  afraid  of  her."  Maria  Stephens 
was  a  tailoress,  who  rented  a  room  on  the  same  floor  with 
Mrs.  Ames,  a  cheerful,  resolute,  go-forward  little  body,  and 
ready  always  to  give  a  helping  hand  to  a  neighbor  in  trouble. 
So  she  took  the  pattern  and  shirts,  and  set  out  on  her 
mission. 

But  poor  Mrs.  Ames,  though  she  professed  to  take  a  right 
view  of  the  matter,  and  was  very  earnest  in  showing  Ellen 
why  she  ought  not  to  distress  herself  about  it,  still  felt  a  shiv- 
ering sense  of  the  hardness  and  unkindness  of  the  world  com- 
ing over  her.  The  bitter  tears  would  spring  to  her  eyes,  in 
spite  of  every  effort  to  suppress  them,  as  she  sat  mournfully 
gazing  on  the  little  faded  miniature  before  mentioned.  "  When 
he  was  alive,  I  never  knew  what  poverty  or  trouble  was,"  was 
the  thought  that  often  passed  through  her  mind.  And  how 
many  a  poor  forlorn  one  has  thought  the  same  ! 

Poor  Mrs.  Ames  was  confined  to  her  bed  for  most  of  that 
week.  The  doctor  gave  absolute  directions  that  she  should 
do  nothing,  and  keep  entirely  quiet  —  a  direction  very  sensi- 
ble indeed  in  the  chamber  of  ease  and  competence,  but  hard 
to  be  observed  in  poverty  and  want. 


THE    SEAMSTRESS.  319 

What  pains  the  kind  and  dutiful  Ellen  took  that  week  to 
make  her  mother  feel  easy !  How  often  she  replied  to  her 
anxious  questions,  "  that  she  was  quite  well,"  or  "  that  her 
head  did  not  ache  much  !  "  and  by  various  other  evasive  ex- 
pedients the  child  tried  to  persuade  herself  that  she  was 
speaking  the  truth.  And  during  the  times  her  mother  slept, 
in  the  day  or  evening,  she  accomplished  one  or  two  pieces  of 
plain  work,  with  the  price  of  which  she  expected  to  surprise 
her  mother. 

It  was  towards  evening  when  Ellen  took  her  finished  work 
to  the  elegant  dwelling  of  Mrs.  Page.  "  I  shall  get  a  dollar 
for  this,"  said  -she ;  "  enough  to  pay  for  mother's  wine  and 
medicine." 

"  This  work  is  done  very  neatly,"  said  Mrs.  Page,  "  and 
here  is  some  more  I  should  like  to  have  finished  in  the  same 
way." 

Ellen  looked  up  wistfully,  hoping  Mrs.  Page  was  going  to 
pay  her  for  the  last  work.  But  Mrs.  Page  was  only  search- 
ing a  drawer  for  a  pattern,  which  she  put  into  Ellen's  hands, 
and  after  explaining  how  she  wanted  her  work  done,  dis- 
missed her  without  saying  a  word  about  the  expected  dollar. 

Poor  Ellen  tried  two  or  three  times,  as  she  was  going  out, 
to  turn  round  and  ask  for  it ;  but  before  she  could  decide  what 
to  say,  she  found  herself  in  the  street. 

Mrs.  Page  was  an  amiable,  kind-hearted  woman,  but  one 
who  was  so  used  to  large  sums  of  money  that  she  did  not  real- 
ize how  great  an  affair  a  single  dollar  might  seem  to  other 
persons.  For  this  reason,  when  Ellen  had  worked  incessantly 
at  the  new  work  put  into  her  hands,  that  she  might  get  the 
money  for  all  together,  she  again  disappointed  her  in  the 
payment. 


320  THE    SEAMSTRESS. 

"  I'll  send  the  money  round  to-morrow,"  said  she,  when 
Ellen  at  last  found  courage  to  ask  for  it.  But  to-morrow- 
came,  and  Ellen  was  forgotten ;  and  it  was  not  till  after  one 
or  two  applications  more  that  the  small  sum  was  paid. 

But  these  sketches  are  already  long  enough,  and  let  us  has- 
ten to  close  them.  Mrs.  Ames  found  liberal  friends,  who 
could  appreciate  and  honor  her  integrity  of  principle  and  love- 
liness of  character,  and  by  their  assistance  she  Avas  raised  to 
see  more  prosperous  days ;  and  she,  and  the  delicate  Ellen, 
and  warm-hearted  Mary  were  enabled  to  have  a  home  and 
fireside  of  their  own,  and  to  enjoy  something  like  the  return 
of  their  former  prosperity. 

We  have  given  these  sketches,  drawn  from  real  life,  be- 
cause Ave  think  there  is  in  general  too  little  consideration  on 
the  part  of  those  who  give  employment  to  those  in  situations 
like  the  widow  here  described.  The  giving  of  employment  is 
a  very  important  branch  of  charity,  inasmuch  as  it  assists  that 
class  of  the  poor  who  are  the  most  deserving.  It  should  be 
looked  on  in  this  light,  and  the  arrangements  of  a  family  be 
so  made  that  a  suitable  compensation  can  be  given,  and  prompt 
and  cheerful  payment  be  made,  without  the  dread  of  trans- 
gressing the  rules  of  economy. 

It  is  better  to  teach  our  daughters  to  do  without  expensive 
ornaments  or  fashionable  elegances  ;  better  even  to  deny  our- 
selves the  pleasure  of  large  donations  or  direct  subscriptions 
to  public  charities,  rather  than  to  curtail  the  small  stipend  of 
her  whose  "  candle  goeth  not  out  by  night,"  and  who  labors 
with  her  needle  for  herself  and  the  helpless  dear  ones  de- 
pendent on  her  exertions. 


OLD    FATHER    MOEEIS 

A   SKETCH   FROM  NATURE. 


Of  all  the  marvels  that  astonished  my  childhood,  there  is 
none  I  remember  to  this  day  with  so  much  interest  as  the  old 
man  whose  name  forms  my  caption.  When  I  knew  him,  he 
was  an  aged  clergyman,  settled  over  an  obscure  village  in 
New  England.  He  had  enjoyed  the  advantages  of  a  liberal 
education,  had  a  strong,  original  power  of  thought,  an  omnip- 
otent imagination,  and  much  general  information  ;  but  so  early 
and  so  deeply  had  the  habits  and  associations  of  the  plough, 
the  farm,  and  country  life  wrought  themselves  into  his  mind, 
that  his  after  acquirements  could  only  mingle  with  them,  form- 
ing an  unexampled  amalgam  like  unto  nothing  but  itself. 

He  was  an  ingrain  New  Englander,  and  whatever  might 
have  been  the  source  of  his  information,  it  came  out  in 
Yankee  form,  with  the  strong  provinciality  of  Yankee  dialect. 

It  is  in  vain  to  attempt  to  give  a  full  picture  of  such  a  gen- 
uine unique  ;  but  some  slight  and  imperfect  dashes  may  help 
the  imagination  to  a  faint  idea  of  what  none  can  fully  con- 
ceive but  those  who  have  seen  and  heard  old  Father  Morris. 

Suppose  yourself  one  of  half  a  dozen  children,  and  you  hear 

(321) 


; > 2 2  OLD    FATHER    MORRIS. 

the  cry,  "  Father  Morris  is  coming  !  "  You  run  to  the  window 
or  door,  and  you  see  a  tall,  bulky  old  man,  with  a  pair  of  sad- 
dle bags  on  one  arm,  hitching  his  old  horse  with  a  fumbling 
carefulness,  and  then  deliberately  stumping  towards  the  house. 
You  notice  his  tranquil,  florid,  full-moon  face,  enlightened  by  a 
pair  of  great  round  blue  eyes,  that  roll  with  dreamy  inattentive- 
ness  on  all  the  objects  around ;  and  as  he  takes  off  his  hat,  you 
see  the  white  curling  wig  that  sets  off  his  round  head.  He 
comes  towards  you,  and  as  you  stand  staring,  with  all  the  chil- 
dren around,  he  deliberately  puts  his  great  hand  on  your  head, 
and,  with  deep,  rumbling  voice,  inquires,  — 

"  How  d'ye  do,  my  darter  ?  is  your  daddy  at  home  ? " 
"  My  darter  "  usually  makes  off  as  fast  as  possible,  in  an  un- 
conquerable giggle.  Father  Morris  goes  into  the  house,  and 
we  watch  him  at  every  turn,  as,  with  the  most  liberal  simplici- 
ty, he  makes  himself  at  home,  takes  off  his  wig,  wipes  down 
his  great  face  with  a  checked  pocket  handkerchief,  helps  him- 
self hither  and  thither  to  whatever  he  wants,  and  asks  for 
such  things  as  he  cannot  lay  his  hands  on,  with  all  the  com- 
fortable easiness  of  childhood. 

I  remember  to  this  day  how  we  used  to  peep  through  the 
crack  of  the  door,  or  hold  it  half  ajar  and  peer  in,  to  watch 
his  motions ;  and  how  mightily  diverted  we  were  with  his 
deep,  slow  manner  of  speaking,  his  heavy,  cumbrous  walk, 
but,  above  all,  with  the  wonderful  faculty  of  "  hemming  "  which 
he  possessed. 

His  deep,  thundering,  protracted  "A-hem-em"  was  like 
nothing  else  that  ever  I  heard  ;  and  when  once,  as  he  was 
in  the  midst  of  one  of  these  performances,  the  parlor  door  sud- 
denly happened  to  swing  open,  I  heard  one  of  my  roguish 
brothers  calling,  in   a  suppressed  tone,  "  Charles !   Charles ! 


OLD    FATHER    MORRIS.  323 

Father  Morris  has  hemmed  the  door  open  !  "  —  and  then  fol- 
lowed the  signs  of  a  long  and  desperate  titter,  in  which  I  sin- 
cerely sympathized. 

But  the  morrow  is  Sunday.  The  old  man  rises  in  the 
pulpit.  He  is  not  now  in  his  own  humble  little  parish, 
preaching  simply  to  the  hoers  of  corn  and  planters  of  pota- 
toes, but  there  sits  Governor  D.,  and  there  is  Judge  R.,  and 
Counsellor  P.,  and  Judge  G.  In  short,  he  is  before  a  refined 
and  literary  audience.  But  Father  Morris  rises  ;  he  thinks 
nothing  of  this  ;  he  cares  nothing ;  he  knows  nothing,  as  he 
himself  would  say,  but  "  Jesus  Christ,  and  him  crucified."  He 
takes  a  passage  of  Scripture  to  explain;  perhaps  it  is  the 
walk  to  Emmaus,  and  the  conversation  of  Jesus  with  his 
disciples.  Immediately  the  whole  start  out  before  you,  liv- 
ing and  picturesque:  the  road  to  Emmaus  is  a  New  England 
turnpike  ;  you  can  see  its  mile  stones,  its  mullein  stalks,  its 
toll  gates.  Next  the  disciples  rise,  and  you  have  before  you 
all  their  anguish,  and  hesitation,  and  dismay  talked  out  to  you 
in  the  language  of  your  own  fireside.  You  smile ;  you  are 
amused ;  yet  you  are  touched,  and  the  illusion  grows  every 
moment.  You  see  the  approaching  stranger,  and  the  myste- 
rious conversation  grows  more  and  more  interesting.  Em- 
maus rises  in  the  distance,  in  the  likeness  of  a  New  England 
village,  with  a  white  meeting  house  and  spire.  You  follow 
the  travellers  ;  you  enter  the  house  with  them  ;  nor  do  you 
wake  from  your  trance  until,  with  streaming  eyes,  the  preacher 
tells  you  that  "  they  saw  it  was  the  Lord  Jesus  —  and  what  a 
pity  it  was  they  could  not  have  known  it  before  ! " 

It  was  after  a  sermon  on  this  very  chapter  of  Scripture 
history  that  Governor  Griswold,  in  passing  out  of  the  house, 
laid  hold  on  the  sleeve  of  his  first  acquaintance  :  "  Pray  tell 
me,"  said  he,  "  who  is  this  minister  ?  " 


324  OLD    FATHER    MORRIS. 

"  Why,  it  is  old  Father  Morris." 

"  Well,  he  is  an  oddity  —  and  a  genius  too,  I  declare  !  he 
continued.  "  I  have  been  wondering  all  the  morning  how  I 
could  have  read  the  Bible  to  so  little  purpose  as  not  to  see  all 
these  particulars  he  has  presented." 

I  once  heard  him  narrate  in  this  picturesque  way  the  story 
of  Lazarus.  The  great  bustling  city  of  Jerusalem  first  rises 
to  view,  and  you  are  told,  with  great  simplicity,  how  the  Lord 
Jesus  "  used  to  get  tired  of  the  noise  ;  "  and  how  he  was 
"  tired  of  preaching,  again  and  again,  to  people  who  would 
not  mind  a  word  he  said  ; "  and  how,  "  when  it  came  evening, 
he  used  to  go  out  and  see  his  friends  in  Bethany."  Then  he 
told  about  the  house  of  Martha  and  Mary :  "  a  little  white 
house  among  the  trees,"  he  said  ;  "  you  could  just  see  it  from 
Jerusalem."  And  there  the  Lord  Jesus  and  his  disciples 
used  to  go  and  sit  in  the  evenings,  with  Martha,  and  Mary, 
and  Lazarus. 

Then  the  narrator  went  on  to  tell  how  Lazarus  died,  de- 
scribing, with  tears  and  a  choking  voice,  the  distress  they 
were  in,  and  how  they  sent  a  message  to  the  Lord  Jesus,  and 
he  did  not  come,  and  how  they  wondered  and  wondered ;  and 
thus  on  he  went,  winding  up  the  interest  by  the  graphic 
minutiae  of  an  eye  witness,  till  he  woke  you  from  the  dream 
by  his  triumphant  joy  at  the  resurrection  scene. 

On  another  occasion,  as  he  was  sitting  at  a  tea  table,  un- 
usually supplied  with  cakes  and  sweetmeats,  he  found  an 
opportunity  to  make  a  practical  allusion  to  the  same  family 
story.  He  said  that  Mary  was  quiet  and  humble,  sitting  at  her 
Savior's  feet  to  hear  his  words  ;  but  Martha  thought  more  of 
what  was  to  be  got  for  tea.  Martha  could  not  find  time  to 
listen  to  Christ.     No  ;  she  was  " '  cumbered  with  much  serv- 


OLD   FATHER    MORRIS.  325 

ing>  —  around  the  house,  frying  fritters  and  making  ginger- 
bread." 

Among  his  own  simple  people,  his  style  of  Scripture  paint- 
ing was  listened  to  with  breathless  interest.  But  it  was 
particularly  in  those  rustic  circles,  called  "conference  meet- 
ings," that  his  whole  warm  soul  unfolded,  and  the  Bible  in 
his  hands  became  a  gallery  of  New  England  paintings. 

He  particularly  loved  the  evangelists,  following  the  foot- 
steps of  Jesus  Christ,  dwelling  upon  his  words,  repeating  over 
and  over  again  the  stories  of  what  he  did,  with  all  the  fond 
veneration  of  an  old  and  favored  servant. 

Sometimes,  too,  he  would  give  the  narration  an  exceedingly 
practical  turn,  as  one  example  will  illustrate. 

He  had  noticed  a  falling  off  in  his  little  circle  that  met  for 
social  prayer,  and  took  occasion,  the  first  time  he  collected  a 
tolerable  audience,  to  tell  concerning  "  the  conference  meeting 
that  the  disciples  attended  "  after  the  resurrection. 

"But  Thomas  was  not  with  them."  "Thomas  not  with 
them  !  "  said  the  old  man,  in  a  sorrowful  voice.  "  Why,  what 
could  keep  Thomas  away?  Perhaps,"  said  he,  glancing  at 
some  of  his  backward  auditors,  "  Thomas  had  got  cold-hearted, 
and  was  afraid  they  would  ask  him  to  make  the  first  prayer  ; 
or  perhaps,"  said  he,  looking  at  some  of  the  farmers,  "  Thomas 
was  afraid  the  roads  were  bad ;  or  perhaps,"  he  added,  after  a 
pause,  "  Thomas  had  got  proud,  and  thought  he  could  not 
come  in  his  old  clothes."  Thus  he  went  on,  significantly  sum- 
ming up  the  common  excuses  of  his  people  ;  and  then,  with 
great  simplicity  and  emotion,  he  added,  "  But  only  think  what 
Thomas  lost !  for  in  the  middle  of  the  meeting,  the  Lord  Jesus 
came  and  stood  among  them  !  How  sorry  Thomas  must  have 
28 


326  OLD    FATHER    MORRIS. 

been  !  "  This  representation  served  to  fill  the  vacant  seats  for 
some  time  to  come. 

At  another  time  Father  Morris  gave  the  details  of  the 
anointing  of  David  to  be  king.  He  told  them  how  Samuel 
went  to  Bethlehem,  to  Jesse's  house,  and  went  in  with  a 
"  How  d'ye  do,  Jesse  ? "  and  how,  when  Jesse  asked  him  to 
take  a  chair,  he  said  he  could  not  stay  a  minute ;  that  the 
Lord  had  sent  him  to  anoint  one  of  his  sons  for  a  king ;  and 
how,  when  Jesse  called  in  the  tallest  and  handsomest,  Samuel 
said  "  he  would  not  do  ; "  and  how  all  the  rest  passed  the 
same  test ;  and  at  last,  how  Samuel  says,  "  Why,  have  not 
you  any  more  sons,  Jesse  ?  "  and  Jesse  says,  "  Why,  yes,  there 
is  little  David  down  in  the  lot ; "  and  how,  as  soon  as  ever 
Samuel  saw  David,  "  he  slashed  the  oil  right  on  to  him  ; "  and 
how  Jesse  said  "  he  never  was  so  beat  in  all  his  life." 

Father  Morris  sometimes  used  his  illustrative  talent  to  very 
good  purpose  in  the  way  of  rebuke.  He  had  on  his  farm  a 
fine  orchard  of  peaches,  from  which  some  of  the  ten  and 
twelve-year-old  gentlemen  helped  themselves  more  liberally 
than  even  the  old  man's  kindness  thought  expedient. 

Accordingly,  he  took  occasion  to  introduce  into  his  sermon 
one  Sunday,  in  his  little  parish,  an  account  of  a  journey  he 
took  ;  and  how  he  was  "  very  warm  and  very  dry ;  "  and  how 
he  saw  a  fine  orchard  of  peaches  that  made  his  mouth  water  to 
look  at  them.  "  So,"  says  he,  "  I  came  up  to  the  fence  and 
looked  all  around,  for  I  would  not  have  touched  one  of  them 
without  leave  for  all  the  world.  At  last  I  spied  a  man,  and 
says  I, '  Mister,  won't  you  give  me  some  of  your  peaches  ? '  So 
the  man  came  and  gave  me  nigh  about  a  hat  full.  And  while 
I  stood  there  eating,  I  said,  '  Mister,  how  do  you  manage  to 
keep  your  peaches  ? '     '  Keep  them  ! '  said  he,  and  he  stared 


OLD    FATHER    MORRIS.  327 

at  me  ;  '  what  do  you  mean  ?  '  '  Yes,  sir,'  said  I ;  '  don't  the 
boys  steal  them  ?  '  '  Boys  steal  them  ! '  said  he.  '  No,  in- 
deed ! '  <  Why,  sir,'  said  I,  <  I  have  a  whole  lot  full  of  peaches, 
and  I  cannot  get  half  of  them ' "  —  here  the  old  man's  voice 
grew  tremulous  —  "  '  because  the  boys  in  my  parish  steal  them 
so.'  '  Why,  sir,'  said  he,  <  don't  their  parents  teach  them  not 
to  steal  ? '  And  I  grew  all  over  in  a  cold  sweat,  and  I  told 
him  '  I  was  afeard  they  didn't.'  *  Why,  how  you  talk  ! '  says 
the  man  ;  *  do  tell  me  where  you  live  ?  '  Then,"  said  Father 
Morris,  the  tears  running  over,  "  I  was  obliged  to  tell  him  I 
lived  in  the  town  of  G."  After  this  Father  Morris  kept  his 
peaches. 

Our  old  friend  was  not  less  original  in  the  logical  than  in 
the  illustrative  portions  of  his  discourses.  His  logic  was  of 
that  familiar,  colloquial  kind  which  shakes  hands  with  com- 
mon sense  like  an  old  friend.  Sometimes,  too,  his  great  mind 
and  great  heart  would  be  poured  out  on  the  vast  themes  of 
religion,  in  language  which,  though  homely,  produced  all  the 
effects  of  the  sublime.  He  once  preached  a  discourse  on  the 
text,  "  the  High  and  Holy  One  that  inhabiteth  eternity ; "  and 
from  the  beginning  to  the  end  it  was  a  train  of  lofty  and 
solemn  thought.  With  his  usual  simple  earnestness,  and  his 
great,  rolling  voice,  he  told  about  "the  Great  God  —  the 
Great  Jehovah  —  and  how  the  people  in  this  world  were  flus- 
tering and  worrying,  and  afraid  they  should  not  get  time  to 
do  this,  and  that,  and  t'other.  But,"  he  added,  with  full- 
hearted  satisfaction,  "  the  Lord  is„never  in  a  hurry ;  he  has  it 
all  to  do,  but  he  has  time  enough,  for  he  inhabiteth  eternity." 
And  the  grand  idea  of  infinite  leisure  and  almighty  resources 
was  carried  through  the  sermon  with  equal  strength  and  sim- 
plicity. 


328  OLD    FATHER    MORRIS. 

Although  the  old  man  never  seemed  to  be  sensible  of  any 
thing  tending  to  the  ludicrous  in  his  own  mode  of  expressing 
himself,  yet  he  had  considerable  relish  for  humor,  and  some 
shrewdness  of  repartee.  One  time,  as  he  was  walking 
through  a  neighboring  parish,  famous  for  its  profanity,  he  was 
stopped  by  a  whole  flock  of  the  youthful  reprobates  of  the 
place  :  — 

"  Father  Morris,  Father  Morris  !  the  devil's  dead  ! " 

"  Is  he  ?  "  said  the  old  man,  benignly  laying  his  hand  on 
the  head  of  the  nearest  urchin  ;  "  you  poor  fatherless  chil- 
dren ! " 

But  the  sayings  and  doings  of  this  good  old  man,  as  re- 
ported in  the  legends  of  the  neighborhood,  are  more  than  can 
be  gathered  or  reported.  He  lived  far  beyond  the  common 
age  of  man,  and  continued,  when  age  had  impaired  his  pow- 
ers, to  tell  over  and  over  again  the  same  Bible  stories  that  he 
had  told  so  often  before. 

I  recollect  hearing  of  the  joy  that  almost  broke  the  old 
man's  heart,  when,  after  many  years'  diligent  watching  and 
nurture  of  the  good  seed  in  his  parish,  it  began  to  spring  into 
vegetation,  sudden  and  beautiful  as  that  which  answers  the 
patient  watching  of  the  husbandman.  Many  a  hard,  worldly- 
hearted  man — many  a  sleepy,  inattentive  hearer  —  many  a 
listless,  idle  young  person,  began  to  give  ear  to  words  that  had 
long  fallen  unheeded.  A  neighboring  minister,  who  had  been 
sent  for  to  see  and  rejoice  in  these  results,  describes  the  scene, 
when,  on  entering  the  little  church,  he  found  an  anxious, 
crowded  auditory  assembled  around  their  venerable  teacher, 
waiting  for  direction  and  instruction.  The  old  man  was  sitting 
in  his  pulpit,  almost  choking  with  fulness  of  emotion  as  he 
gazed  around.     "  Father,"  said  the  youthful  minister,  "  I  sup- 


OLD    FATHER    MORRIS.  329 

pose  you  are  ready  to  say  with  old  Simeon,  '  Now,  Lord, 
lettest  thou  thy  servant  depart  in  peace,  for  my  eyes  have  seen 
thy  salvation.' "  "  Sartin,  sartin"  said  the  old  man,  while 
the  tears  streamed  down  his  cheeks,  and  his  whole  frame  shook 
with  emotion. 

It  was  not  many  years  after  that  this  simple  and  loving 
servant  of  Christ  was  gathered  in  peace  unto  Him  whom  he 
loved.  His  name  is  fast  passing  from  remembrance,  and  in  a 
few  years,  his  memory,  like  his  humble  grave,  will  be  entirely 
grown  over  and  forgotten  among  men,  though  it  will  be  had 
in  everlasting  remembrance  by  Him  who  "  forgetteth  not  his 
servants,"  and  in  whose  sight  the  death  of  his  saints  is 
precious. 

28* 


THE  TWO   ALTARS, 

OR    TWO    PICTURES    IN    ONE. 

I.    THE   ALTAR   OF  LIBERTY,   OR   1776. 

The  wellsweep  of  the  old  house  on  the  hill  was  relieved, 
dark  and  clear,  against  the  reddening  sky,  as  the  early  winter 
sun  was  going  down  in  the  west.  It  was  a  brisk,  clear,  metal- 
lic evening  ;  the  long  drifts  of  snow  blushed  crimson  red  on 
their  tops,  and  lay  in  shades  of  purple  and  lilac  in  the  hollows  ; 
and  the  old  wintry  wind  brushed  shrewdly  along  the  plain, 
tingling  people's  noses,  blowing  open  their  cloaks,  puffing 
in  the  back  of  their  necks,  and  showing  other  unmistakable 
indications  that  he  was  getting  up  steam  for  a  real  roister- 
ing night. 

i  Hurrah  !  How  it  blows  !  "  said  little  Dick  Ward,  from 
the  top  of  the  mossy  wood  pile. 

Now  Dick  had  been  sent  to  said  wood  pile,  in  company  with 
his  little  sister  Grace,  to  pick  up  chips,  which,  everybody 
knows,  was  in  the  olden  time  considered  a  wholesome  and 
gracious  employment,  and  the  peculiar  duty  of  the  rising  gen- 
eration.    But  said  Dick,  being  a  boy,  had  mounted  the  wood 

(330) 


THE    TWO    ALTARS,    OR    TWO    PICTURES    IN    ONE.       331 

pile,  and  erected  there  a  flagstaff,  on  which  he  was  busily  tying 
a  little  red  pocket  handkerchief,  occasionally  exhorting  Grace 
"  to  be  sure  and  pick  up  fast." 

"  0,  yes,  I  will,"  said  Grace  ;  "  but  you  see  the  chips  have 
got  ice  on  'em,  and  make  my  hands  so  cold !  " 

"  O,  don't  stop  to  suck  your  thumbs  !  Who  cares  for  ice  ? 
Pick  away,  I  say,  while  I  set  up  the  flag  of  liberty." 

So  Grace  picked  away  as  fast  as  she  could,  nothing  doubt- 
ing but  that  her  cold  thumbs  were  in  some  mysterious  sense 
an  offering  on  the  shrine  of  liberty ;  while  soon  the  red  hand- 
kerchief, duly  secured,  fluttered  and  snapped  in  the  brisk 
evening  wind. 

"  Now  you  must  hurrah,  Gracie,  and  throw  up  your  bon- 
net," said  Dick,  as  he  descended  from  the  pile. 

"  But  won't  it  lodge  down  in  some  place  in  the  wood  pile  ?  " 
suggested  Grace,  thoughtfully. 

"  O,  never  fear ;  give  it  to  me,  and  just  holler  now,  Gracie, 
1  Hurrah  for  liberty  ; '  and  we'll  throw  up  your  bonnet  and  my 
cap  ;  and  we'll  play,  you  know,  that  we  are  a  whole  army, 
and  I'm  General  Washington." 

So  Grace  gave  up  her  little  red  hood,  and  Dick  swung  his 
cap,  and  up  they  both  went  into  the  air;  and  the  children 
shouted,  and  the  flag  snapped  and  fluttered,  and  altogether 
they  had  a  merry  time  of  it.  But  then  the  wind  —  good 
for  nothing,  roguish  fellow  !  —  made  an  ungenerous  plunge 
at  poor  Grace's  little  hood,  and  snipped  it  up  in  a  twin- 
kling, and  whisked  it  off,  off,  off,  —  fluttering  and'  bobbing 
up  and  down,  quite  across  a  wide,  waste,  snowy  field,  and 
finally  lodged  it  on  the  top  of  a  tall,  strutting  rail,  that  was 
leaning,  very  independently,  quite  another  way  from  all  the 
other  rails  of  the  fence. 


332       THE    TWO    ALTARS,    OR    TWO    PICTURES    IN    ONE. 

"  Now  see,  do  see !  "  said  Grace  ;  "  there  goes  my  bonnet ! 
What  will  Aunt  Hitty  say  ?  "  and  Grace  began  to  cry. 

"  Don't  you  cry,  Grade  ;  you  offered  it  up  to  liberty,  you 
know :  it's  glorious  to  give  up  every  thing  for  liberty." 

"  O,  but  Aunt  Hitty  won't  think  so." 

"  Well,  don't  cry,  Gracie,  you  foolish  girl !  Do  you  think  I 
can't  get  it  ?  Now,  only  play  that  that  great  rail  is  a  fort, 
and  your  bonnet  is  a  prisoner  in  it,  and  see  how  quick  I'll 
take  the  fort  and  get  it ! "  and  Dick  shouldered  a  stick  and 
started  off. 


"  What  upon  airth  keeps  those  children  so  long  ?  I  should 
think  they  were  making  chips  !  "  said  Aunt  Mehetabel ;  "  the 
fire's  just  a  going  out  under  the  tea  kettle." 

By  this  time  Grace  had  lugged  her  heavy  basket  to  the 
door,  and  was  stamping  the  snow  off  her  little  feet,  which  were 
so  numb  that  she  needed  to  stamp,  to  be  quite  sure  they  were 
yet  there.  Aunt  Mehetabel's  shrewd  face  was  the  first  that 
greeted  her  as  the  door  opened. 

"  Gracie  —  what  upon  airth  !  —  wipe  your  nose,  child  ;  your 
hands  are  frozen.  Where  alive  is  Dick  ?  —  and  what's  kept 
you  out  all  this  time  ?  —  and  where's  your  bonnet  ?  " 

Poor  Grace,  stunned  by  this  cataract  of  questions,  neither 
wiped  her  nose  nor  gave  any  answer,  but  sidled  up  into  the 
warm  corner,  where  grandmamma  was  knitting,  and  began 
quietly  rubbing  and  blowing  her  fingers,  while  the  tears  silent-. 
ly  rolled  down  her  cheeks,  as  the  fire  made  the  former  ache 
intolerably. 

"  Poor  little  dear  !  "  said  grandmamma,  taking  her  hands  in 
hers  ;  "  Hitty  shan't  scold  you.  Grandma  knows  you've  been 
a  good  girl  —  the  wind  blew  poor  Gracie's  bonnet  away;" 


THE    TWO    ALTARS,    OR    TWO    PICTURES    IN    ONE.       333 

and  grandmamma  wiped  both  eyes  and  nose,  and  gave  her, 
moreover,  a  stalk  of  dried  fennel  out  of  her  pocket ;  whereat 
Grace  took  heart  once  more. 

"  Mother  always  makes  fools  of  Roxy's  children,"  said  Me- 
hetabel,  puffing  zealously  under  the  tea  kettle.  "  There's  a 
little  maple  sugar  in  that  saucer  up  there,  mother,  if  you 
will  keep  giving  it  to  her,"  she  said,  still  vigorously  puffing. 
"  And  now,  Gracie,"  she  said,  when,  after  a  while,  the  fire 
seemed  in  tolerable  order,  "  will  you  answer  my  question  ? 
Where  is  Dick  ?  " 

"  Gone  over  in  the  lot,  to  get  my  bonnet." 

"  How  came  your  bonnet  off?"  said  Aunt  Mehetabel.  "I 
tied  it  on  firm  enough." 

"  Dick  wanted  me  to  take  it  off  for  him,  to  throw  up  for 
liberty,"  said  Grace. 

"  Throw  up  for  fiddlestick  !  Just  one  of  Dick's  cut-ups ; 
and  you  was  silly  enough  to  mind  him  !  " 

"  Why,  he  put  up  a  flagstaff  on  the  wood  pile,  and  a  flag  to 
liberty,  you  know,  that  papa's  fighting  for,"  said  Grace,  more 
confidently,  as  she  saw  her  quiet,  blue-eyed  mother,  who  had 
silently  walked  into  the  room  during  the  conversation. 

Grace's  mother  smiled  and  said,  encouragingly,  "  And  what 
then  ?  " 

"  Why,  he  wanted  me  to  throw  up  my  bonnet  and  he  his 
cap,  and  shout  for  liberty ;  and  then  the  wind  took  it  and 
carried  it  off,  and  he  said  I  ought  not  to  be  sorry  if  I  did  lose 
it  —  it  was  an  offering  to  liberty." 

"  And  so  I  did,"  said  Dick,  who  was  standing  as  straight  as 
a  poplar  behind  the  group  ;  "  and  I  heard  it  in  one  of  father's 
letters  to  mother,  that  we  ought  to  offer  up  every  thing  on  the 
altar  of  liberty  —  and  so  I  made  an  altar  of  the  wood  pile." 


334       THE    TWO    ALTARS,    OR    TWO    PICTURES    IN    ONE. 

"  Good  boy  !  "  said  his  mother  ;  "  always  remember  every 
thing  your  father  writes.  He  has  offered  up  every  thing  on 
the  altar  of  liberty,  true  enough ;  and  I  hope  you,  son,  will 
live  to  do  the  same." 

"  Only,  if  I  have  the  hoods  and  caps  to  make,"  said  Aunt 
Hitty,  "  I  hope  he  won't  offer  them  up  every  week  —  that's 
all ! " 

"  0  !  well,  Aunt  Hitty,  I've  got  the  hood  ;  let  me  alone  for 
that.  It  blew  clear  over  into  the  Daddy  Ward  pasture  lot, 
and  there  stuck  on  the  top  of  the  great  rail ;  and  I  played 
that  the  rail  was  a  fort,  and  besieged  it,  and  took  it." 

"  0,  yes  !  you're  always  up  to  taking  forts,  and  any  thing 
else  that  nobody  wants  done.  I'll  warrant,  now,  you  left 
Grade  to  pick  up  every  blessed  one  of  them  chips." 

"  Picking  up  chips  is  girl's  work,"  said  Dick  ;  "  and  taking 
forts  and  defending  the  country  is  men's  work." 

"And  pray,  Mister  Pomp,  how  long  have  you  been  a 
man  ?  "  said  Aunt  Hitty. 

"  If  I  ain't  a  man,  I  soon  shall  be  ;  my  head  is  'most  up  to 
my  mother's  shoulder,  and  I  can  fire  off  a  gun,  too.  I  tried, 
the  other  day,  when  I  was  up  to  the  store.  Mother,  I  wish 
you'd  let  me  clean  and  load  the  old  gun,  so  that,  if  the  British 
should  come " 

"  Well,  if  you  are  so  big  and  grand,  just  lift  me  out  that 
table,  sir,"  said  Aunt  Hitty ;  "  for  it's  past  supper  time." 

Dick  sprang,  and  had  the  table  out  in  a  trice,  with  an  abun- 
dant clatter,  and  put  up  the  leaves  with  quite  an  air.  His 
mother,  with  the  silent  and  gliding  motion  characteristic  of 
her,  quietly  took  out  the  table  cloth  and  spread  it,  and  began 
to  set  the  cups  and  saucers  in  order,  and  to  put  on  the  plates 
and  knives,  while  Aunt  Hitty  bustled  about  the  tea. 


THE    TWO    ALTARS,    OR    TWO    PICTURES    IN    ONE.      335 

"  I'll  be  glad  when  the  war's  over,  for  one  reason,"  said  she. 
"  I'm  pretty  much  tired  of  drinking  sage  tea,  for  one,  I  know." 
"  Well,  Aunt  Hitty,  how  you  scolded  that  pedler  last  week, 
that  brought  along  that  real  tea  !  " 

"  To  be  sure  I  did.  S'pose  I'd  be  taking  any  of  his  old  tea, 
bought  of  the  British  ?  —  fling  every  teacup  in  his  face  first." 

"  Well,  mother,"  said  Dick,  "  I  never  exactly  understood 
what  it  was  about  the  tea,  and  why  the  Boston  folks  threw  it 
all  overboard." 

"  Because  there  was  an  unlawful  tax  laid  upon  it,  that  the 
government  had  no  right  to  lay.  It  wasn't  much  in  itself; 
but  it  was  a  part  of  a  whole  system  of  oppressive  meanness, 
designed  to  take  away  our  rights,  and  make  us  slaves  of  a 
foreign  power." 

"  Slaves  !  "  said  Dick,  straightening  himself  proudly.  "  Fa- 
ther a  slave  ! " 

"  But  they  would  not  be  slaves  !  They  saw  clearly  where 
it  would  all  end,  and  they  would  not  begin  to  submit  to  it  in 
ever  so  little,"  said  the  mother. 

"  I  wouldn't,  if  I  was  they,"  said  Dick. 
"  Besides,"  said  his  mother,  drawing  him  towards  her,  "  it 
wasn't  for  themselves  alone  they  did  it.  This  is  a  great  coun- 
try, and  it  will  be  greater  and  greater  ;  and  it's  very  important 
that  it  should  have  free  and  equal  laws,  because  it  will  by  and 
by  be  so  great.  This  country,  if  it  is  a  free  one,  will  be  a 
light  of  the  world  —  a  city  set  on  a  hill,  that  cannot  be  hid  ; 
and  all  the  oppressed  and  distressed  from  other  countries  shall 
come  here  to  enjoy  equal  rights  and  freedom.  This,  dear  boy, 
is  why  your  father  and  uncles  have  gone  to  fight,  and  why 
they  do  stay  and  fight,  though  God  knows  what  they  suffer, 
iind "  and  the  large  blue  eyes  of  the  mother  were  full  of 


336       THE    TWO    ALTARS,    OR    TWO    PICTURES    IN    ONE. 

tears ;  yet  a  strong,  bright  beam  of  pride  and  exultation  shone 
through  those  tears. 

"  Well,  well,  Roxy,  yon  can  always  talk,  every  body  knows," 
said  Aunt  Hitty,  who  had  been  not  the  least  attentive  listener 
of  this  little  patriotic  harangue  ;  "  but,  you  see,  the  tea  is  get- 
ting cold,  and  yonder  I  see  the  sleigh  is  at  the  door,  and  John's 
come ;  so  let's  set  up  our  chairs  for  supper." 

The  chairs  were  soon  set  up,  when  John,  the  eldest  son,  a 
lad  of  about  fifteen,  entered  with  a  letter.  There  was  one 
general  exclamation,  and  stretching  out  of  hands  towards  it. 
John  threw  it  into  his  mother's  lap  ;  the  tea  table  was  forgot- 
ten, and  the  tea  kettle  sang  unnoticed  by  the  fire,  as  all  hands 
crowded  about  mother's  chair  to  hear  the  news.  It  was  from 
Captain  Ward,  then  in  the  American  army,  at  Valley  Forge. 
Mrs.  Ward  ran  it  over  hastily,  and  then  read  it  aloud.  A  few 
words  we  may  extract. 

"  There  is  still,"  it  said,  "  much  suffering.  I  have  given 
away  every  pair  of  stockings  you  sent  me,  reserving  to  myself 
only  one  ;  for  I  will  not  be  one  whit  better  off  than  the  poor- 
est soldier  that  fights  for  his  country.  Poor  fellows  !  it  makes 
my  heart  ache  sometimes  to  go  round  among  them,  and  see 
them  with  their  worn  clothes  and  torn  shoes,  and  often  bleed- 
ing feet,  yet  cheerful  and  hopeful,  and  every  one  willing  to  do 
his  very  best.  Often  the  spirit  of  discouragement  comes  over 
them,  particularly  at  night,  when,  weary,  cold,  and  hungry, 
they  turn  into  their  comfortless  huts,  on  the  snowy  ground. 
Then  sometimes  there  is  a  thought  of  home,  and  warm  fires, 
and  some  speak  of  giving  up  ;  but  next  morning  out  come 
Washington's  general  orders  —  little  short  note,  but  it's  won- 
derful the  good  it  docs  !  and  then  they  all  resolve  to  hold  on, 
come  what  may.     There  are  commissioners  going  all  through 


THE    TWO    AXTARS,    OR    TWO    PICTURES    IN    ONE.       337 

the  country  to  pick  up  supplies.  If  they  come  to  you,  I  need 
not  tell  you  what  to  do.  I  know  all  that  will  be  in  your 
hearts." 

"  There,  children,  see  what  your  father  suffers,"  said  the 
mother,  "  and  what  it  costs  these  poor  soldiers  to  gain  our 
liberty." 

"  Ephraim  Scranton  told  me  that  the  commissioners  had 
come  as  far  as  the  Three  Mile  Tavern,  and  that  he  rather 
'spected  they'd  be  along  here  to-night,"  said  John,  as  he  was 
helping  round  the  baked  beans  to  the  silent  company  at  the 
tea  table. 

"  To-night  ?  —  do  tell,  now  !  "  said  Aunt  Hitty.  "  Then  it's 
time  we  were  awake  and  stirring.  Let's  see  what  can  be 
got." 

"  I'll  send  my  new  overcoat,  for  one,"  said  John.  "  That 
old  one  isn't  cut  up  yet,  is  it,  Aunt  Hitty  ?  " 

"  No,"  said  Aunt  Hitty  ;  "  I  was  laying  out  to  cut  it  over 
next  Wednesday,  when  Desire  Smith  could  be  here  to  do  the 
tailoring. 

"  There's  the  south  room,"  said  Aunt  Hitty,  musing ;  "  that 
bed  has  the  two  old  Aunt  Ward  blankets  on  it,  and  the  great 
blue  quilt,  and  two  comforters.  Then  mother's  and  my  room, 
two  pair  —  four  comforters  —  two  quilts  —  the  best  chamber 
has  got " 

"  O  Aunt  Hitty,  send  all  that's  in  the  best  chamber  !  If 
any  company  comes,  we  can  make  it  up  off  from  our  beds," 
said  John.  "  I  can  send  a  blanket  or  two  off  from  my  bed,  I 
know  ;  —  can't  but  just  turn  over  in  it,  so  many  clothes  on, 
now." 

"  Aunt  Hitty,  take  a  blanket  off  from  our  bed,"  said  Grace 
and  Dick  at  once. 

29 


338       THE    TWO    ALTARS,    OR    TWO    PICTURES    IN    ONE. 

"  Well,  well,  we'll  see,"  said  Aunt  Hitty,  bustling  up. 

Up  rose  grandmamma,  with  great  earnestness,  now,  and 
going  into  the  next  room,  and  opening  a  large  cedar  wood 
chest,  returned,  bearing  in  her  arms  two  large  mow  white 
blankets,  which  she  deposited  flat  on  the  table,  just  as  Aunt 
Hitty  was  whisking  off  the  table  cloth. 

"  Mortal !  mother,  what  are  you  going  to  do  ?  "  said  Aunt 
Hitty. 

"  There,"  she  said,  "  I  spun  those,  every  thread  of  'em, 
when  my  name  was  Mary  Evans.  Those  were  my  wedding 
blankets,  made  of  real  nice  wool,  and  worked  with  roses  in 
all  the  corners.  I've  got  them  to  give  !  "  and  grandmamma 
stroked  and  smoothed  the  blankets,  and  patted  them  down, 
with  great  pride  and  tenderness.  It  was  evident  she  was 
giving  something  that  lay  v^ry  near  her  heart ;  but  she  never 
faltered. 

"  La  !  mother,  there's  no  need  of  that,"  said  Aunt  Hitty. 
"  Use  them  on  your  own  bed,  and  send  the  blankets  off  from 
that ;  they  are  just  as  good  for  the  soldiers." 

"  No,  I  shan't !  "  said  the  old  lady,  waxing  warm  ;  "  'tisn't 
a  bit  too  good  for  'em.  I'll  send  the  very  best  I've  got,  before 
they  shall  suffer.  Send  'em  the  best  I  "  and  the  old  lady 
gestured  oratorically. 

They  were  interrupted  by  a  rap  at  the  door,  and  two  men 
entered,  and  announced  themselves  as  commissioned  by  Con- 
gress to  search  out  supplies  for  the  army.  Now  the  plot 
thickens.  Aunt  Hitty  flew  in  every  direction,  —  through 
entry  passage,  meal  room,  milk  room,  down  cellar,  up  cham- 
ber, —  her  cap  border  on  end  with  patriotic  zeal ;  and  followed 
by  John,  Dick,  and  Grace,  who  eagerly  bore  to  the  kitchen 
the  supplies  that  she  turned  out,  while  Mrs.  Ward  busied  her- 


THE    TWO    ALTARS,    OR    TWO    PICTURES    IN    ONE.       339 

self  in  quietly  sorting  and  arranging,  in  the  best  possible  trav- 
elling order,  the  various  contributions  that  were  precipitately 
launched  on  the  kitchen  floor. 

Aunt  Hitty  soon  appeared  in  the  kitchen  with  an  armful  of 
stockings,  which,  kneeling  on  the  floor,  she  began  counting 
and  laying  out. 

"  There,"  she  said,  laying  down  a  large  bundle  on  some 
blankets,  "  that  leaves  just  two  pair  apiece  all  round." 

"  La  !  "  said  John,  "  what's  the  use  of  saving  two  pair  for 
me  ?     I  can  do  with  one  pair,  as  well  as  father." 

"  Sure  enough,"  said  his  mother  ;  "  besides,  I  can  knit  you 
another  pair  in  a  day." 

"  And  I  can  do  with  one  pair,"  said  Dick. 

"  Yours  will  be  too  small,  young  master,  I  guess,"  said  one 
of  the  commissioners. 

"  No,"  said  Dick  ;  "  I've  got  a  pretty  good  foot  of  my  own, 
and  Aunt  Hitty  will  always  knit  my  stockings  an  inch  too 
long,  'cause  she  says  I  grow  so.  See  here  —  these  will  do  ;  " 
and  the  boy  shook  his,  triumphantly. 

"  And  mine,  too,"  said  Grace,  nothing  doubting,  having  been 
busy  all  the  time  in  pulling  off  her  little  stockings. 

"  Here,"  she  said  to  the  man  who  was  packing  the  things 
into  a  wide-mouthed  sack  ;  "  here's  mine,"  and  her  large  blue 
eyes  looked  earnestly  through  her  tears. 

Aunt  Hitty  flew  at  her.  "  Good  land !  the  child's  crazy. 
Don't  think  the  men  could  wear  your  stockings — take 'em 
away !  " 

Grace  looked  around  with  an  air  of  utter  desolation,  and 
began  to  cry.  "  I  wanted  to  give  them  something,"  said  she. 
"  I'd  rather  go  barefoot  on  the  snoW  all  day  than  not  send  'em 
any  thing." 


340      THE    TWO    ALTARS,    OR    TWO    PICTURES    IN    ONE. 

"  Give  me  the  stockings,  my  child,"  said  the  old  soldier, 
tenderly.  "  There,  I'll  take  'em,  and  show  'em  to  the  soldiers, 
and  tell  them  what  the  little  girl  said  that  sent  them.  And  it 
will  do  them  as  much  good  as  if  they  could  wear  them. 
They've  got  little  girls  at  home,  too."  Grace  fell  on  her 
mother's  bosom  completely  happy,  and  Aunt  Hitty  only  mut- 
tered, — 

"  Every  body  does  spile  that  child ;  and  no  wonder, 
neither  ! " 

Soon  the  old  sleigh  drove  off  from  the  brown  house,  tightly 
packed  and  heavily  loaded.  And  Grace  and  Dick  were 
creeping  up  to  their  little  beds. 

"  There's  been  something  put  on  the  altar  of  Liberty  to- 
night, hasn't  there,  Dick  ?  " 

"  Yes,  indeed,"  said  Dick  ;  and,  looking  up  to  his  mother, 
he  said,  "  But,  mother,  what  did  you  give  ?  " 

"  I  ?  "  said  the  mother,  musingly. 

"  Yes,  you,  mother  ;  what  have  you  given  to  the  country  ?" 

"  All  that  I  have,  dears,"  said  she,  laying  her  hands  gently 
on  their  heads  —  "  my  husband  and  my  children  !  " 

II.    THE  ALTAR   OF ,   OR   1850. 

The  setting  sun  of  chill  December  lighted  up  the  solitary 

front  window  of  a  small  tenement  on Street,  in  Boston, 

which  we  now  have  occasion  to  visit.  As  we  push  gently  aside 
the  open  door,  we  gain  sight  of  a  small  room,  clean  as  busy 
hands  can  make  it,  where  a  neat,  cheerful  young  mulatto  woman 
is  busy  at  an  ironing  table.  A  basket  full  of  glossy-bosomed 
shirts,  and  faultless  collars  and  wristbands,  is  beside  her,  into 
which  she  is  placing  the  last  few  items  with  evident  pride  and 


THE    TWO    ALTARS,    OR    TWO    PICTURES    IN    ONE.       341 

satisfaction.  A  bright  black-eyed  boy,  just  come  in  from  school, 
with  his  satchel  of  books  over  his  shoulder,  stands,  cap  in 
hand,  relating  to  his  mother  how  he  has  been  at  the  head  of 
his  class,  and  showing  his  school  tickets,  which  his  mother, 
with  untiring  admiration,  deposits  in  the  little  real  china  tea 
pot  —  which,  as  being  their  most  reliable  article  of  gentility, 
is  made  the  deposit  of  all  the  money  and  most  especial  valua- 
bles of  the  family. 

"  Now,  Henry,"  says  the  mother,  "  look  out  and  see  if 
father  is  coming  along  the  street ; "  and  she  begins  filling  the 
little  black  tea  kettle,  which  is  soon  set  singing  on  the  stove. 

From  the  inner  room  now  daughter  Mary,  a  well-grown 
girl  of  thirteen,  brings  the  baby,  just  roused  from  a  nap,  and 
very  impatient  to  renew  his  acquaintance  with  his  mamma. 

"  Bless  his  bright  eyes  !  —  mother  will  take  him,"  ejaculates 
the  busy  little  woman,  whose  hands  are  by  this  time  in  a  very 
floury  condition,  in  the  incipient  stages  of  wetting  up  biscuit, 
—  "in  a  minute ; "  and  she  quickly  frees  herself  from  the 
flour  and  paste,  and,  deputing  Mary  to  roll  out  her  biscuit, 
proceeds  to  the  consolation  and  succor  of  young  master. 

"  Now,  Henry,"  says  the  mother,  "  you'll  have  time,  before 
supper,  to  take  that  basket  of  clothes  up  to  Mr.  Sheldin's ; 
put  in  that  nice  bill,  that  you  made  out  last  night.  I  shall 
give  you  a  cent  for  every  bill  you  write  out  for  me.  What  a 
comfort  it  is,  now,  for  one's  children  to  be  gettin'  learnin'  so ! " 

Henry  shouldered  the  basket,  and  passed  out  the  door,  just 
as  a  neatly-dressed  colored  man  walked  up,  with  his  pail  and 
whitewash  brushes. 

"  O,  you've  come,  father,  have  you  ?  Mary,  are  the  biscuits 
in  ?  You  may  as  well  set  the  table,  now.  Well,  George, 
what's  the  news  ? " 

29* 


342       THE    TWO    ALTARS,    OR    TWO    PICTURES    IN    ONE. 

"  Nothing,  only  a  pretty  smart  day's  work.  I've  brought 
home  five  dollars,  and  shall  have  as  much  as  I  can  do,  these 
two  weeks  ; "  and  the  man,  having  washed  his  hands,  pro- 
ceeded to  count  out  his  change  on  the  ironing  table. 

"  "Well,  it  takes  you  to  bring  in  the  money,"  said  the  de- 
lighted wife  ;  "  nobody  but  you  could  turn  off  that  much  in 
a  day." 

"  Well,  they  do  say  —  those  that's  had  me  once  —  that  they 
never  want  any  other  hand  to  take  hold  in  their  rooms.  I 
s'pose  its  a  kinder  jDractice  I've  got,  and  kinder  natural ! " 

"  Tell  ye  what,"  said  the  little  woman,  taking  down  the 
family  strong  box,  —  to  wit,  the  china  tea  pot,  aforenamed,  — 
and  pouring  the  contents  on  the  table,  "  we're  getting  mighty 
rich,  now  !  We  can  afford  to  get  Henry  his  new  Sunday  cap, 
and  Mary  her  mousseline-de-laine  dress  —  take  care,  baby,  you 
rogue  ! "  she  hastily  interposed,  as  young  master  made  a  dive 
at  a  dollar  bill,  for  his  share  in  the  proceeds. 

"  He  wants  something,  too,  I  suppose,"  said  the  father ; 
"  let  him  get  his  hand  in  while  he's  young." 

The  baby  gazed,  with  round,  astonished  eyes,  while  mother, 
with  some  difficulty,  rescued  the  bill  from  his  grasp  ;  but,  be- 
fore any  one  could  at  all  anticipate  his  purpose,  he  dashed  in 
among  the  small  change  with  such  zeal  as  to  send  it  flying  all 
over  the  table. 

"  Hurrah  !  Bob's  a  smasher  !  "  said  the  father,  delighted  ; 
"  he'll  make  it  fly,  he  thinks  ; "  and,  taking  the  baby  on  his 
knee,  he  laughed  merrily,  as  Mary  and  her  mother  pursued 
the  rolling  coin  all  over  the  room. 

"  He  knows  now,  as  well  as  can  be,  that  he's  been  doing 
mischief,"  said  the  delighted  mother,  as  the  baby  kicked  and 
crowed  uproariously :  "  he's  such  a  forward  child,  now,  to  be 


THE    TWO    ALTARS,    OR    TWO    PICTURES    IN    ONE.       343 

only  six  months  old  !  O,  you've  no  idea,  father,  how  mis- 
chievous he  grows ; "  and  therewith  the  little  woman  began  to 
roll  and  tumble  the  little  mischief  maker  about,  uttering  divers 
frightful  threats,  which  appeared  to  contribute,  in  no  small  de- 
gree, to  the  general  hilarity. 

"  Come,  come,  Mary,"  said  the  mother,  at  last,  with  a 
sudden  burst  of  recollection ;  '•  you  mustn't  be  always  on 
your  knees  fooling  with  this  child  !  Look  hi  the  oven  at  them 
biscuits." 

"They're  done  exactly,  mother  —  just  the  brown!"  and, 
with  the  word,  the  mother  dumped  baby  on  to  his  father's 
knee,  where  he  sat  contentedly  munching  a  very  ancient  crust 
of  bread,  occasionally  improving  the  flavor  thereof  by  rubbing 
it  on  his  father's  coat  sleeve. 

"  What  have  you  got  in  that  blue  dish,  there  ? "  said 
George,  when  the  whole  little  circle  were  seated  around  the 
table. 

"  Well,  now,  what  do  you  suppose  ?  "  said  the  little  woman, 
delighted :  "  a  quart  of  nice  oysters  — just  for  a  treat,  you 
know.  I  wouldn't  tell  you  till  this  minute,"  said  she,  raising 
the  cover. 

"  Well,"  said  George,  "  we  both  work  hard  for  our  money, 
and  we  don't  owe  any  body  a  cent ;  and  why  shouldn't  we 
have  our  treats,  now  and  then,  as  well  as  rich  folks  ?  " 

And  gayly  passed  the  supper  hour ;  the  tea  kettle  sung,  the 
baby  crowed,  and  all  chatted  and  laughed  abundantly. 

"  I'll  tell  you,"  said  George,  wiping  his  mouth  ;  "  wife,  these 
times  are  quite  another  thing  from  what  it  used  to  be  down  in 
Georgia.  I  remember  then  old  mas'r  used  to  hire  me  out  by 
the  year ;  and  one  time,  I  remember,  I  came  and  paid  him  in 
two  hundred  dollars  —  every  cent  I'd  taken.     He  just  looked 


344       THE    TWO    ALTARS,    OR    TWO    PICTURES    IN    ONE. 

it  over,  counted  it,  and  put  it  in  his  pocket  book,  and  said,  'You 
are  a  good  boy,  George '  —  and  he  gave  me  half  a  dollar  I " 

"  I  want  to  know,  now  ! "  said  his  wife. 

"  Yes,  he  did,  and  that  was  every  cent  I  ever  got  of  it ;  and, 
I  tell  you,  I  was  mighty  bad  off  for  clothes,  them  times." 

"  Well,  well,  the  Lord  be  praised,  they're  over,  and  you  are 
in  a  free  country  now  !  "  said  the  wife,  as  she  rose  thoughtfully 
from  the  table,  and  brought  her  husband  the  great  Bible. 
The  little  circle  were  ranged  around  the  stove  for  evening 
prayers. 

"  Henry,  my  boy,  you  must  read  —  you  are  a  better 
reader  than  your  father  —  thank  God,  that  let  you  learn 
early ! " 

The  boy,  with  a  cheerful  readiness,  read,  (l  The  Lord  is  my 
Shepherd,"  and  the  mother  gently  stilled  the  noisy  baby,  to 
listen  to  the  holy  words.  Then  all  kneeled,  while  the  father, 
with  simple  earnestness,  poured  out  his  soul  to  God. 

They  had  but  just  risen  —  the  words  of  Christian  hope 
and  trust  scarce  died  on  their  lips  —  when,  lo  !  the  door  was 
burst  open,  and  two  men  entered  ;  and  one  of  them,  advan- 
cing, laid  his  hand  on  the  father's  shoulder.  "  This  is  the 
fellow,"  said  he. 

"  You  are  arrested  in  the  name  of  the  United  States ! " 
said  the  other. 

"  Gentlemen,  what  is  this  ?  "  said  the  poor  man,  trembling. 

"  Are  you  not  the  property  of  Mr.  B.,  of  Georgia  ?  "  said 
the  officer. 

"  Gentlemen,  I've  been  a  free,  hard-working  man  these  ten 
years." 

"  Yes  ;  but  you  are  arrested,  on  suit  of  Mr.  B.,  as  his 
slave." 


THE    TWO    ALTARS,    OR    TWO    PICTURES    IN    ONE.      345 

Shall  we  describe  the  leave  taking  —  the  sorrowing  wife,  the 
dismayed  children,  the  tears,  the  anguish,  that  simple,  honest, 
kindly  home,  in  a  moment  so  desolated  ?  Ah,  ye  who  defend 
this  because  it  is  law,  think,  for  one  hour,  what  if  this  that 
happens  to  your  poor  brother  should  happen  to  you  ! 


It  was  a  crowded  court  room,  and  the  man  stood  there  to  be 
tried  —  for  life  ?  — no  ;  but  for  the  life  of  life  —  for  liberty  ! 

Lawyers  hurried  to  and  fro,  buzzing,  consulting,  bringing 
authorities,  —  all  anxious,  zealous,  engaged,  —  for  what  ? 
To  save  a  fellow-man  from  bondage  ?  No  ;  anxious  and  zeal- 
ous lest  he  might  escape ;  full  of  zeal  to  deliver  him  over  to 
slavery.  The  poor  man's  anxious  eyes  follow  vainly  the  busy 
course  of  affairs,  from  which  he  dimly  learns  that  he  is  to  be 
sacrificed  —  on  the  altar  of  the  Union ;  and  that  his  heart- 
break and  anguish,  and  the  tears  of  his  wife,  and  the  desola- 
tion of  his  children  are,  in  the  eyes  of  these  well-informed 
men,  only  the  bleat  of  a  sacrifice,  bound  to  the  horns  of  the 
glorious  American  altar  ! 


Again  it  is  a  bright  day,  and  business  walks  brisk  in  this 
market.  Senator  and  statesman,  the  learned  and  patriotic,  are 
out,  this  day,  to  give  their  countenance  to  an  edifying,  and  im- 
pressive, and  truly  American  spectacle  —  the  sale  of  a  man  ! 
All  the  preliminaries  of  the  scene  are  there  ;  dusky-browed 
mothers,  looking  with  sad  eyes  while  speculators  are  turning 
round  their  children,  looking  at  their  teeth,  and  feeling  of 
their  arms;  a  poor,  old,  trembling  woman,  helpless,  half  blind, 
whose  last  child  is  to  be  -old.  holds  on  to  her  bright  boy  with 


346      THE    TWO    ALTARS,    OR    TWO    PICTURES    IN    ONE. 

trembling  hands.  Husbands  and  wives,  sisters  and  friends, 
all  soon  to  be  scattered  like  the  chaff  of  the  threshing  floor, 
look  sadly  on  each  other  with  poor  nature's  last  tears  ;  and 
among  them  walk  briskly,  glib,  oily  politicians,  and  thriving 
men  of  law,  letters,  and  religion,  exceedingly  sprightly,  and 
in  good  spirits  —  for  why  ?  —  it  isn't  they  that  are  going  to  be 
sold  ;  it's  only  somebody  else.  And  so  they  are  very  comfort- 
able, and  look  on  the  whole  thing  as  quite  a  matter-of-course 
affair,  and,  as  it  is  to  be  conducted  to-day,  a  decidedly  val- 
uable and  judicious  exhibition. 

And  now,  after  so  many  hearts  and  souls  have  been 
knocked  and  thumped  this  way  and  that  way  by  the  auction- 
eer's hammer,  comes  the  instructive  part  of  the  whole  ;  and 
the  husband  and  father,  whom  we  saw  in  his  simple  home, 
reading  and  praying  with  his  children,  and  rejoicing  in  the  joy 
of  his  poor  ignorant  heart  that  he  lived  in  a  free  country,  is 
now  set  up  to  be  admonished  of  his  mistake. 

Now  there  is  great  excitement,  and  pressing  to  see,  and  ex- 
ultation and  approbation  ;  for  it  is  important  and  interesting 
to  see  a  man  put  down  that  has  tried  to  be  a,  free  man. 

"  That's  he,  is  it  ?     Couldn't  come  it,  could  he  ?  "  says  one. 

"  No  ;  and  he  will  never  come  it,  that's  more,"  says  another, 
triumphantly. 

"  I  don't  generally  take  much  interest  in  scenes  of  this  na- 
ture," says  a  grave  representative ;  "  but  I  came  here  to-day 
for  the  sake  of  the  principle/" 

"  Gentlemen,"  says  the  auctioneer,  "  we've  got  a  specimen 
here  that  some  of  your  northern  abolitionists  would  give  any 
price  for  ;  but  they  shan't  have  him  !  no  !  we've  looked  out  for 
that.  The  man  that  buys  him  must  give  bonds  never  to  sell 
him  to  go  north  again  !  " 


THE    TWO    ALTARS,    OR   TWO    PICTURES    IN    ONE.      347 

"  Go  it !  "  shout  the  crowd  ;  "  good  !  good  !  hurrah  !  "  "  An 
impressive  idea ! "  says  a  senator;  "a  noble  maintaining  of 
principle  !  "  and  the  man  is  bid  off,  and  the  hammer  falls  with 
a  last  crash  on  his  heart,  his  hopes,  his  manhood,  and  he 
lies  a  bleeding  wreck  on  the  altar  of  Liberty  ! 

Such  was  the  altar  in  177G ;  such  is  the  altar  in  1850  ! 


A  SCHOLAR'S  ADVENTURES  IN  THE 
COUNTRY. 


"  If  we  could  only  live  in  the  country,"  said  my  wife,  "  how 
much  easier  it  would  be  to  live  !  " 

"  And  how  much  cheaper  ! "  said  L 

"  To  have  a  little  place  of  our  own,  and  raise  our  own 
things  ! "  said  my  wife.  "  Dear  me  !  I  am  heart  sick  when  I 
think  of  the  old  place  at  home,  and  father's  great  gar- 
den. What  peaches  and  melons  we  used  to  have  !  what  green 
peas  and  corn  !  Now  one  has  to  buy  every  cent's  worth  of 
these  things  —  and  how  they  taste  !  Such  wilted,  miserable 
corn !  Such  peas  !  Then,  if  we  lived  in  the  country,  we 
should  have  our  own  cow,  and  milk  and  cream  in  abundance ; 
our  own  hens  and  chickens.  We  could  have  custard  and  ice 
cream  every  day." 

"  To  say  nothing  of  the  trees  and  flowers,  and  all  that," 
said  I. 

The  result  of  this  little   domestic  duet  was,  that  my  wife 

and  I  began  to  ride  about  the  city  of to  look  up  some 

pretty,  interesting  cottage,  where  our  visions  of  rural  bliss 
might  be  realized.  Country  residences,  near  the  city,  we 
found  to  bear  rather  a  high  price ;  so  that  it  was  no  easy  mat- 

(348) 


a  scholar's  adventures  in  the  country.   349 

ter  to  find  a  situation  suitable  to  the  length  of  our  purse ;  till, 
at  last,  a  judicious  friend  suggested  a  happy  expedient. 

"  Borrow  a  few  hundred,"  he  said,  "  and  give  your  note  ; 
you  can  save  enough,  very  soon,  to  make  the  difference. 
When  you  raise  every  thing  you  eat,  you  know  it  will  make 
your  salary  go  a  wonderful  deal  further." 

"  Certainly  it  will,"  said  I.  "  And  what  can  be  more  beau- 
tiful than  to  buy  places  by  the  simple  process  of  giving  one's 
note  ?  —  'tis  so  neat,  and  handy,  and  convenient !  " 

"  Why,"  pursued  my  friend,  "  there  is  Mr.  B.,  my  next 
door  neighbor  —  'tis  enough  to  make  one  sick  of  life  in  the 
city  to  spend  a  week  out  on  his  farm.  Such  princely  living  as 
one  gets  !  And  he  assures  me  that  it  costs  him  very  little  — 
scarce  any  thing,  perceptible,  in  fact." 

"Indeed  !  "  said  I ;  "few  people  can  say  that." 

"  Why,"  said  my  friend,  "  he  has  a  couple  of  peach  trees 
for  every  month,  from  June  till  frost,  that  furnish  as  many 
peaches  as  he,  and  his  wife,  and  ten  children  can  dispose  of. 
And  then  he  has  grapes,  apricots,  &c. ;  and  last  year  his  wife 
sold  fifty  dollars'  worth  from  her  strawberry  patch,  and  had  an 
abundance  for  the  table  besides.  Out  of  the  milk  of  only  one 
cow  they  had  butter  enough  to  sell  three  or  four  pounds  a 
week,  besides  abundance  of  milk  and  cream ;  and  madam  has 
the  butter  for  her  pocket  money.  This  is  the  way  country 
people  manage." 

"  Glorious  ! "  thought  I.  And  my  wife  and  I  could  scarce 
sleep,  all  night,  for  the  brilliancy  of  our  anticipations ! 

To  be  sure  our  delight  was  somewhat  damped  the  next  day 
by  the    coldness    with   which  my  good    old   uncle,  Jeremiah 
Standfast,  who    happened  along  at  precisely  this    crisis,  lis- 
tened to  our  visions. 
SO 


350   a  scholar's  adventures  in  the  country. 

"  You'll  find  it  pleasant,  children,  in  the  summer  time,"  said 
the  hard-fisted  old  man,  twirling  his  blue-checked  pocket 
handkerchief ;  "  but  I'm  sorry  you've  gone  in  debt  for  the 
land." 

"  0,  but  we  shall  soon  save  that  —  it's  so  much  cheaper  liv- 
ing in  the  country !  "  said  both  of  us  together. 

"  Well,  as  to  that,  I  don't  think  it  is  to  city-bred  folks." 

Here  I  broke  in  with  a  flood  of  accounts  of  Mr.  B.'s  peach 
trees,  and  Mrs.  B.'s  strawberries,  butter,  apricots,  &c,  &c. ; 
to  which  the  old  gentleman  listened  with  such  a  long,  leathery, 
unmoved  quietude  of  visage  as  quite  provoked  me,  and  gave 
me  the  worst  possible  opinion  of  his  judgment.  I  was  disap- 
pointed too  ;  for,  as  he  was  reckoned  one  of  the  best  practical 
farmers  in  the  county,  I  had  counted  on  an  enthusiastic  sym- 
pathy with  all  my  agricultural  designs. 

"  I  tell  you  what,  children,"  he  said,  "  a  body  can  live  in 
the  country,  as  you  say,  amazin'  cheap  ;  but  then  a  body  must 
know  how"  —  and  my  uncle  spread  his  pocket  handkerchief 
thoughtfully  out  upon  his  knees,  and  shook  his  head  gravely. 

I  thought  him  a  terribly  slow,  stupid  old  body,  and  won- 
dered how  I  had  always  entertained  so  high  an  opinion  of  lus 
sense. 

"  He  is  evidently  getting  old,"  said  I  to  my  wife ;  "  his  judg- 
ment is  not  what  it  used  to  be." 

At  all  events,  our  place  was  bought,  and  we  moved  out, 
well  pleased,  the  first  morning  in  April,  not  at  all  remember- 
ing the  ill  savor  of  that  day  for  matters  of  wisdom.  Our 
place  was  a  pretty  cottage,  about  two  miles  from  the  city,  with 
grounds  that  had  been  tastefully  laid  out.  There  was  no  lack 
of  winding  paths,  arbors,  flower  borders,  and  rosebushes,  with 
which  my   wife  was  especially  pleased.     There  was  a  little 


a  scholar's  adventures  in  the  country.      351 

green  lot,  strolling  off  down  to  a  brook,  with  a  thick  grove  of 
trees  at  the  end,  where  our  cow  was  to  be  pastured. 

The  first  week  or  two  went  on  happily  enough  in  getting 
our  little  new  pet  of  a  house  into  trimness  and  good  order ; 
for,  as  it  had  been  long  for  sale,  of  course  there  was  any 
amount  of  little  repairs  that  had  been  left  to  amuse  the  leisure 
hours  of  the  purchaser.  Here  a  door  step  had  given  away, 
and  needed  replacing;  there  a  shutter  hung  loose,  and  wanted 
a  hinge ;  abundance  of  glass  needed  setting ;  and  as  to  paint- 
ing and  papering,  there  was  no  end  to  that.  Then  my  wife 
wanted  a  door  cut  here,  to  make  our  bed  room  more  con- 
venient, and  a  china  closet  knocked  up  there,  where  no  china 
closet  before  had  been.  We  even  ventured  on  throwing  out 
a  bay  window  from  our  sitting  room,  because  we  had  luckily 
lighted  on  a  workman  who  was  so  cheap  that  it  was  an  actual 
saving  of  money  to  employ  him.  And  to  be  sure  our  darling 
little  cottage  did  lift  up  its  head  wonderfully  for  all  this  gar- 
nishing and  furbishing.  I  got  up  early  every  morning,  and 
nailed  up  the  rosebushes,  and  my  wife  got  up  and  watered 
geraniums,  and  both  flattered  ourselves  and  each  other  on  our 
early  hours  and  thrifty  habits.  But  soon,  like  Adam  and  Eve 
in  Paradise,  we  found  our  little  domain  to  ask  more  hands 
than  ours  to  get  it  into  shape.  So  says  I  to  my  wife,  "  I  will 
bring  out  a  gardener  when  I  come  next  time,  and  he  shall  lay 
the  garden  out,  and  get  it  into  order  ;  and  after  that,  I  can 
easily  keep  it  by  the  work  of  my  leisure  hours." 

Our  gardener  was  a  very  sublime  sort  of  man,  —  an  Eng- 
lishman, and,  of  course,  used  to  laying  out  noblemen's  places, 
—  and  we  became  as  grasshoppers  in  our  own  eyes  when  he 
talked  of  lord  this  and  that's  estate,  and  began  to  question  us 
about  our  carriage  drive  and  conservatory;  and  we  could  with 


352   A  scholar's  adventures  in  the  country. 

difficulty  bring  the  gentleman  down  to  any  understanding  of 
the  humble  limits  of  our  expectations :  merely  to  dress  out 
the  walks,  and  lay  out  a  kitchen  garden,  and  plant  potatoes, 
turnips,  beets,  and  carrots,  was  quite  a  descent  for  him.  In 
fact,  so  strong  were  his  aesthetic  preferences,  that  he  persuaded 
my  wife  to  let  him  dig  all  the  turf  off  from  a  green  square 
opposite  the  bay  window,  and  to  lay  it  out  into  divers  little 
triangles,  resembling  small  pieces  of  pie,  together  with  circles, 
mounds,  and  various  other  geometrical  ornaments,  the  plan- 
ning and  planting  of  which  soon  engrossed  my  wile's  whole 
soul.  The  planting  of  the  potatoes,  beets,  carrots,  &c,  was 
intrusted  to  a  raw  Irishman  ;  for,  as  to  me,  to  confess  the 
truth,  I  began  to  fear  that  digging  did  not  agree  with  me.  It 
is  true  that  I  was  exceedingly  vigorous  at  first,  and  actually 
planted  with  my  own  hands  two  or  three  long  rows  of  pota- 
toes ;  after  which  I  got  a  turn  of  rheumatism  in  my  shoulder, 
which  lasted  me  a  week.  Stooping  down  to  plant  beets  and 
radishes  gave  me  a  vertigo,  so  that  I  was  obliged  to  content 
myself  with  a  general  s-uperinteudence  of  the  garden  ;  that  is 
to  say,  I  charged  my  Englishman  to  see  that  my  Irishman  did 
his  duty  properly,  and  then  got  on  to  my  horse  and  rode  to 
the  city.  But  about  one  part  of  the  matter,  I  must  say,  I 
was  not  remiss  ;  and  that  is,  in  the  purchase  of  seed  and  gar- 
den utensils.  Not  a  day  passed  that  I  did  not  come  home 
with  my  pockets  stuffed  with  choice  seeds,  roots,  &c. ;  and  the 
variety  of  my  garden  utensils  was  unequalled.  There  was 
not  a  pruning  hook,  of  any  pattern,  not  a  hoe,  rake,  or  spade, 
great  or  small,  that  I  did  not  have  specimens  of;  and  flower 
seeds  and  bulbs  were  also  forthcoming  in  liberal  proportions. 
In  fact,  I  had  opened  a.i  account  at  a  thriving  seed  store  ;  for, 
when  a  man  is  driving  business  on  a  large  scale,  it  is  not 


a  scholar's  adventures  in  the  country.   353 

always  convenient  to  hand  out  the  change  for  every  little  mat- 
ter, and  buying  things  on  account  is  as  neat  and  agreeable  a 
mode  of  acquisition  as  paying  bills  with  one's  notes. 

u  You  know  we  must  have  a  cow,"  said  my  wife,  the  morn- 
ing of  our  second  week.  Our  friend  the  gardener,  who  had 
now  worked  with  us  at  the  rate  of  two  dollars  a  day  for  two 
weeks,  was  at  hand  in  a  moment  in  our  emergency.  We 
wanted  to  buy  a  cow,  and  he  had  one  to  sell  —  a  wonderful 
cow,  of  a  real  English  breed.  He  would  not  sell  her  for  any 
money,  except  to  oblige  particular  friends ;  but  as  we  had 
patronized  him,  we  should  have  her  for  forty  dollars.  How 
much  we  were  obliged  to  him  !  The  forty  dollars  were  speed- 
ily forthcoming,  and  so  also  was  the  cow. 

"  What  makes  her  shake  her  head  in  that  way  ?  "  said  my 
wife,  apprehensively,  as  she  observed  the  interesting  beast 
making  sundry  demonstrations  with  her  horns.  "  I  hope  she's 
gentle." 

The  gardener  fluently  demonstrated  that  the  animal  was  a 
pattern  of  all  the  softer  graces,  and  that  this  head-shaking 
was  merely  a  little  nervous  affection  consequent  on  the  em- 
barrassment of  a  new  position.  We  had  faith  to  believe  almost 
any  thing  at  this  time,  and  therefore  came  from  the  barn  yard 
to  the  house  as  much  satisfied  with  our  purchase  as  Job  with 
his  three  thousand  camels  and  five  hundred  yoke  of  oxen. 
Her  quondam  master  milked  her  for  us  the  first  evening,  out 
of  a  delicate  regard  to  her  feelings  as  a  stranger,  and  we  fan- 
cied that  we  discerned  forty  dollars'  worth  of  excellence  in  the 
very  quality  of  the  milk. 

But  alas  !  the  next  morning  our  Irish  girl  came  in  with  a 
most  rueful  face.  "  And  is  it  milking  that  baste  you'd  have 
30* 


354   A  scholar's  adventures  in  the  country. 

me  be  after  ?  "  she  said  ;  "  sure,  and  she  won't  let  me  come 
near  her  ?  " 

"  Nonsense,  Biddy  !  "  said  I ;  "  you  frightened  her,  perhaps  ; 
the  cow  is  perfectly  gentle  ;  "  and  with  the  pail  on  my  arm,  I 
sallied  forth.  The  moment  madam  saw  me  entering  the  cow 
yard,  she  greeted  me  with  a  very  expressive  nourish  of  her 
horns. 

"  This  won't  do,"  said  T,  and  I  stopped.  The  lady  evident- 
ly was  serious  in  her  intentions  of  resisting  any  personal  ap- 
proaches. I  cut  a  cudgel,  and  putting  on  a  bold  face,  marched 
towards  her,  while  Biddy  followed  with  her  milking  stool. 
Apparently,  the  beast  saw  the  necessity  of  temporizing,  for  she 
assumed  a  demure  expression,  and  Biddy  sat  down  to  milk. 
I  stood  sentry,  and  if  the  lady  shook  her  head,  I  shook  my 
stick;  and  thus  the  milking  operation  proceeded  with  tolera- 
ble serenity  and  success. 

"  There  !  "  said  I,  with  dignity,  when  the  frothing  pail  was 
full  to  the  brim.  "  That  will  do,  Biddy,"  and  I  dropped  my 
stick.  Dump  !  came  madam's  heel  on  the  side  of  the  pail, 
and  it  flew  like  a  rocket  into  the  air,  while  the  milky  flood 
showered  plentifully  over  me,  and  a  new  broadcloth  riding-coat 
that  I  had  assumed  for  the  first  time  that  morning.  "  Whew  !  " 
said  I,  as  soon  as  I  could  get  my  breath  from  this  extraordi- 
nary shower  bath  ;  "  what's  all  this  ?  "  My  wife  came  running 
towards  the  cow  yard,  as  I  stood  with  the  milk  streaming  from 
my  hair,  filling  my  eyes,  and  dropping  from  the  tip  of  my 
nose  ;  and  she  and  Biddy  performed  a  recitative  lamentation 
over  me  in  alternate  strophes,  like  the  chorus  in  a  Gre^k  tra- 
gedy. Such  was  our  first  morning's  experience  ;  but  as  we 
had  announced  our  bargain  with  some  considerable  flourish 


a  scholar's  adventures  in  the  country.      355 

of  trumpets  among  our  neighbors  and  friends,  we  concluded 
to  hush  the  matter  up  as  much  as  possible. 

"  These  very  superior  cows  are  apt  to  be  cross,"  said  I ; 
"we  must  bear  with  it  as  we  do  with  the  eccentricities  of 
genius ;  besides,  when  she  gets  accustomed  to  us,  it  will  be 
better." 

Madam  was  therefore  installed  into  her  pretty  pasture  lot, 
and  my  wife  contemplated  with  pleasure  the  picturesque  effect 
of  her  appearance,  reclining  on  the  green  slope  of  the  pasture 
lot,  or  standing  ankle  deep  in  the  gurgling  brook,  or  reclining 
under  the  deep  shadows  of  the  trees.  She  was,  in  fact,  a 
handsome  cow,  which  may  account,  in  part,  for  some  of  her 
sins  ;  and  this  consideration  inspired  me  with  some  degree  of 
indulgence  towards  her  foibles. 

But  when  I  found  that  Biddy  could  never  succeed  in  getting 
near  her  in  the  pasture,  and  that  any  kind  of  success  in  the 
milking  operations  required  my  vigorous  personal  exertions 
morning  and  evening,  the  matter  wore  a  more  serious  aspect, 
and  I  began  to  feel  quite  pensive  and  apprehensive.  It  is 
very  well  to  talk  of  the  pleasures  of  the  milkmaid  going  out 
in  the  balmy  freshness  of  the  purple  dawn  ;  but  imagine  a 
poor  fellow  pulled  out  of  bed  on  a  drizzly,  rainy  morning,  and 
equipping  himself  for  a  scamper  through  a  wet  pasture  lot, 
rope  in  hand,  at  the  heels  of  such  a  termagant  as  mine  !  In 
fact,  madam  established  a  regular  series  of  exercises,  which 
had  all  to  be  gone  through  before  she  would  suffer  herself  to 
be  captured ;  as,  first,  she  would  station  herself  plump  in  the 
middle  of  a  marsh,  which  lay  at  the  lower  part  of  the  lot,  and 
look  very  innocent  and  absent-minded,  as  if  reflecting  on  some 
sentimental  subject.  "Suke!  Suke  !  Suke  !  "  I  ejaculate, 
cautiously  tottering  along  the  edge  of  the  marsh,  and  holding 


3/)6   a  scholar's  adventures  in  the  country. 

out  an  ear  of  corn.  The  lady  looks  gracious,  and  conies  for- 
ward, almost  within  reach  of  my  hand.  I  make  a  plunge  to 
throw  the  rope  over  her  horns,  and  away  she  goes,  kicking  up 
mud  and  water  into  my  face  in  her  flight,  while  I,  losing  my 
balance,  tumble  forward  into  the  marsh.  I  pick  myself  up, 
and,  full  of  wrath,  behold  her  placidly  chewing  her  cud  on  the 
other  side,  with  the  meekest  air  imaginable,  as  who  should 
say,  "  I  hope  you  are  not  hurt,  sir."  I  dash  through  swamp 
and  bog  furiously,  resolving  to  carry  all  by  a  coup  de  main. 
Then  follows  a  miscellaneous  season  of  dodging,  scampering, 
and  bopeeping,  among  the  trees  of  the  grove,  interspersed 
with  sundry  occasional  races  across  the  bog  aforesaid.  I  al- 
ways wondered  how  I  caught  her  every  day ;  and  when  I  had 
tied  her  head  to  one  post  and  her  heels  to  another,  I  wiped 
the  sweat  from  my  brow,  and  thought  I  was  paying  dear  for 
the  eccentricities  of  genius.  A  genius  she  certainly  was,  for 
besides  her  surprising  agility,  she  had  other  talents  equally 
extraordinary.  There  was  no  fence  that  she  could  not  take 
down  ;  nowhere  that  she  could  not  go.  She  took  the  pickets 
off  the  garden  fence  at  her  pleasure,  using  her  horns  as  hand- 
ily as  I  could  use  a  claw  hammer.  Whatever  she  had  a  mind 
to,  whether  it  were  a  bite  in  the  cabbage  garden,  or  a  run  in 
the  corn  patch,  or  a  foraging  expedition  into  the  flower  bor- 
ders, she  made  herself  equally  welcome  and  at  home.  Such 
a  scampering  and  driving,  such  cries  of  "  Suke  here  "  and 
"  Suke  there,"  as  constantly  greeted  our  ears,  kept  our  little 
establishment  in  a  constant  commotion.  At  last,  when  she 
one  morning  made  a  plunge  at  the  skirts  of  my  new  broadcloth 
frock  coat,  and  carried  off  one  flap  on  her  horns,  my  patience 
gave  out,  and  I  determined  to  sell  her. 

As,  however,  I  had  made  a  good  story  of  my  misfortunes 


a  scholar's  adventures  in  the  country.      357 

among  my  friends  and  neighbors,  and  amused  them  with  sun- 
dry whimsical  accounts  of  my  various  adventures  in  the  cow- 
catching  line,  I  found,  when  I  came  to  speak  of  selling,  that 
there  was  a  general  coolness  on  the  subject,  and  nobody 
seemed  disposed  to  be  the  recipient  of  my  responsibilities. 
In  short,  I  was  glad,  at  last,  to  get  fifteen  dollars  for  her,  and 
comforted  myself  with  thinking  that  I  had  at  least  gained 
twenty-five  dollars  worth  of  experience  in  the  transaction,  to 
say  nothing  of  the  fine  exercise. 

I  comforted  my  soul,  however,  the  day  after,  by  purchasing 
and  bringing  home  to  my  wife  a  fine  swarm  of  bees. 

"  Your  bee,  now,"  says  I,  "  is  a  really  classical  insect,  and 
breathes  of  Virgil  and  the  Augustan  age  —  and  then  she  is  a 
domestic,  tranquil,  placid  creature.  How  beautiful  the  mur- 
muring of  a  hive  near  our  honeysuckle  of  a  calm,  summer 
evening !  Then  they  are  tranquilly  and  peacefully  amassing 
for  us  their  stores  of  sweetness,  while  they  lull  us  with  their 
murmurs.  What  a  beautiful  image  of  disinterested  benevo- 
lence !  " 

My  wife  declared  that  I  was  quite  a  poet,  and  the  beehive 
was  duly  installed  near  the  flower  plots,  that  the  delicate 
creatures  might  have  the  full  benefit  of  the  honeysuckle  and 
mignonette.  My  spirits  began  to  rise.  I  bought  three  differ- 
ent treatises  on  the  rearing  of  bees,  and  also  one  or  two  new 
patterns  of  hives,  and  proposed  to  rear  my  bees  on  the  most 
approved  model.  I  charged  all  the  establishment  to  let  me 
know  when  there  was  any  indication  of  an  emigrating  spirit, 
that  I  might  be  ready  to  receive  the  new  swarm  into  my 
patent  mansion. 

Accordingly,  one  afternoon,  when  I  was  deep  in  an  article 
that  I  was  preparing  for  the  North  American  Review,  intel- 


358   A  scholar's  adventures  in  the  country. 

ligence  was  brought  me  that  a  swarm  had  risen.  I  was  on 
the  alert  at  once,  and  discovered,  on  going  out,  that  the  pro- 
voking creatures  had  chosen  the  top  of  a  tree  about  thirty 
feet  high  to  settle  on.  Now  my  books  had  carefully  instructed 
me  just  how  to  approach  the  swarm  and  cover  them  with  a 
new  hive ;  but  I  had  never  contemplated  the  possibility  of  the 
swarm  being,  like  Haman's  gallows,  forty  cubits  high.  I 
looked  despairingly  upon  the  smooth-bark  tree,  which  rose,  like 
a  column,  full  twenty  feet,  without  branch  or  twig.  "  What  is 
to  be  done  ?  "  said  I,  appealing  to  two  or  three  neighbors.  At 
last,  at  the  recommendation  of  one  of  them,  a  ladder  was 
raised  against  the  tree,  and,  equipped  with  a  shirt  outside  of 
my  clothes,  a  green  veil  over  my  head,  and  a  pair  of  leather 
gloves  on  my  hands,  I  went  up  with  a  saw  at  my  girdle  to  saw 
off  the  branch  on  which  they  had  settled,  and  lower  it  by  a 
rope  to  a  neighbor,  similarly  equipped,  who  stood  below  with 
the  hive. 

As  a  result  of  this  manoeuvre  the  fastidious  little  insects 
were  at  length  fairly  installed  at  housekeeping  in  my  new 
patent  hive,  and,  rejoicing  in  my  success,  I  again  sat  down  to 
my  article. 

That  evening  my  wife  and  I  took  tea  in  our  honeysuckle 
arbor,  with  our  little  ones  and  a  friend  or  two,  to  whom  I 
showed  my  treasures,  and  expatiated  at  large  on  the  comforts 
and  conveniences  of  the  new  patent  hive. 

But  alas  for  the  hopes  of  man!  The  little  ungrateful 
wretches  —  what  must  they  do  but  take  advantage  of  my  over- 
sleeping myself,  the  next  morning,  to  clear  out  for  new  quar- 
ters without  so  much  as  leaving  me  a  P.  P.  C. !  Such  was  the 
fact ;  at  eight  o'clock  I  found  the  new  patent  hive  as  good  as 
ever ;  but  the  bees  I  have  never  seen  from  that  day  to  this ! 


A  SCHOLAR  S  ADVENTURES  IN  THE  COUNTRY.    359 

"  The  rascally  little  conservatives  !  "  said  I ;  "  I  believe 
they  have  never  had  a  new  idea  from  the  days  of  Virgil  down, 
and  are  entirely  unprepared  to  appreciate  improvements." 

Meanwhile  the  seeds  began  to  germinate  in  our  garden, 
when  we  found,  to  our  chagrin,  that,  between  John  Bull  and 
Paddy,  there  had  occurred  sundry  confusions  in  the  several 
departments.  Radishes  had  been  planted  broadcast,  carrots 
and  beets  arranged  in  hills,  and  here  and  there  a  whole  paper 
of  seed  appeared  to  have  been  planted  bodily.  My  good  old 
uncle,  who,  somewhat  to  my  confusion,  made  me  a  call  at  this 
time,  was  greatly  distressed  and  scandalized  by  the  appearance 
of  our  garden.  But,  by  a  deal  of  fussing,  transplanting,  and 
replanting,  it  was  got  into  some  shape  and  order.  My  uncle 
was  rather  troublesome,  as  careful  old  people  are  apt  to  be  — 
annoying  us  by  perpetual  inquiries  of  what  we  gave  for  this, 
and  that,  and  running  up  provoking  calculations  on  the  final 
cost  of  matters  ;  and  we  began  to  wish  that  his  visits  might  be 
as  short  as  would  be  convenient. 

But  when,  on  taking  leave,  he  promised  to  send  us  a  fine 
young  cow  of  his  own  raising,  our  hearts  rather  smote  us  for 
our  impatience. 

"  'Tain't  any  of  your  new  breeds,  nephew,"  said  the  old  man, 
"  yet  I  can  say  that  she's  a  gentle,  likely  young  crittur,  and 
better  worth  forty  dollars  than  many  a  one  that's  cried  up  for 
Ayrshire  or  Durham;  and  you  shall  be  quite  welcome  to 
her." 

We  thanked  him,  as  in  duty  bound,  and  thought  that  if  he 
was  full  of  old-fashioned  notions,  he  was  no  less  full  of  kind- 
ness and  good  will. 

And  now,  with  a  new  cow,  with  our  garden  beginning  to 
thrive  under   the   gentle   showers    of  May,  with  our  flower 


360   a  scholar's  adventures  in  the  country. 

borders  blooming,  my  wife  and  I  began  to  think  ourselves  in 
Paradise.  But  alas  !  the  same  sun  and  rain  that  warmed  our 
fruit  and  flowers  brought  up  from  the  earth,  like  sulky  gnomes, 
a  vast  array  of  purple-leaved  weeds,  that  almost  in  a  night 
seemed  to  cover  the  whole  surface  of  the  garden  beds.  Our 
gardeners  both  being  gone,  the  weeding  was  expected  to  be 
done  by  me  —  one  of  the  anticipated  relaxations  of  my  leisure 
hours. 

"  Well,"  said  I,  in  reply  to  a  gentle  intimation  from  my 
wife,  "  when  my  article  is  finished,  I'll  take  a  day  and  weed  all 
up  clean." 

Thus  days  slipped  by,  till  at  length  the  article  was  despatched, 
and  I  proceeded  to  my  garden.  Amazement!  Who  could  have 
possibly  foreseen  that  any  thing  earthly  could  grow  so  fast  in 
a  few  days  !  There  were  no  bounds,  no  alleys,  no  beds,  no 
distinction  of  beet  and  carrot,  nothing  but  a  flourishing  con- 
gregation of  weeds  nodding  and  bobbing  in  the  morning  breeze, 
as  if  to  say,  "  We  hope  you  are  well,  sir  —  we've  got  the 
ground,  you  see  ! "  I  began  to  explore,  and  to  hoe,  and  to 
weed.  Ah  !  did  any  body  ever  try  to  clean  a  neglected  carrot 
or  beet  bed,  or  bend  his  back  in  a  hot  sun  over  rows  of  weedy 
onions  !  He  is  the  man  to  feel  for  my  despair !  How  I 
weeded,  and  sweat,  and  sighed !  till,  when  high  noon  came  on, 
as  the  result  of  all  my  toils,  only  three  beds  were  cleaned ! 
And  how  disconsolate  looked  the  good  seed,  thus  unexpectedly 
delivered  from  its  sheltering  tares,  and  laid  open  to  a  broiling 
July  sun  !  Every  juvenile  beet  and  carrot  lay  flat  down, 
wilted  and  drooping,  as  if,  like  me,  they  had  been  weeding,  in- 
stead of  being  weeded. 

"  This  weeding  is  quite  a  serious  matter,"  said  I  to  my  wife ; 
"  the  fact  is,  I  must  have  help  about  it ! " 


A  SCHOLARS  ADVENTURES  IN  THE  COUNTRY.    361 

"  Just  what  I  was  myself  thinking,"  said  my  wife.  "  My 
flower  borders  are  all  in  confusion,  and  my  petunia  mounds  so 
completely  overgrown,  that  nobody  would  dream  what  they 
were  meant  for  ! " 

In  short,  it  was  agreed  between  us  that  we  could  not  afford 
the  expense  of  a  full-grown  man  to  keep  our  place ;  yet  we 
must  reenforce  ourselves  by  the  addition  of  a  boy,  and  a  brisk 
youngster  from  the  vicinity  was  pitched  upon  as  the  happy 
addition.  This  youth  was  a  fellow  of  decidedly  quick  parts, 
and  in  one  forenoon  made  such  a  clearing  in  our  garden  that 
I  was  delighted.  Bed  after  bed  appeared  to  view,  all  cleared 
and  dressed  out  with  such  celerity  that  I  was  quite  ashamed 
of  my  own  slowness,  until,  on  examination,  I  discovered  that 
he  had,  with  great  impartiality,  pulled  up  both  weeds  and 
vegetables. 

This  hopeful  beginning  was  followed  up  by  a  succession  of 
proceedings  which  should  be  recorded  for  the  instruction  of 
all  who  seek  for  help  from  the  race  of  boys.  Such  a  loser  of 
all  tools,  great  and  small ;  such  an  invariable  leaver-open  of 
all  gates,  and  letter-down  of  bars  ;  such  a  personification  of  all 
manner  of  anarchy  and  ill  luck,  had  never  before  been  seen 
on  the  estate.  His  time,  while  I  was  gone  to  the  city,  was 
agreeably  diversified  with  roosting  on  the  fence,  swinging  on 
the  gates,  making  poplar  whistles  for  the  children,  hunting 
eggs,  and  eating  whatever  fruit  happened  to  be  in  season,  in 
which  latter  accomplishment  he  was  certainly  quite  distin- 
guished. After  about  three  weeks  of  this  kind  of  joint  gar- 
dening, we  concluded  to  dismiss  Master  Tom  from  the  firm, 
and  employ  a  man. 

"  Things  must  be  taken  care  of,"  said  I,  "  and  I  cannot  do 
it.  'Tis  out  of  the  question."  And  so  the  man  was  seemed. 
31 


3G2      A  scholar's  adventures  in  the  country. 

But  I  am  making  a  long  story,  and  may  chance  to  outrun 
the  sympathies  of  my  readers.  Time  would  fail  me  to  tell 
of  the  distresses  manifold  that  fell  upon  me  —  of  cows  dried 
up  by  poor  milkers ;  of  hens  that  wouldn't  set  at  all,  and  hens 
that,  despite  all  law  and  reason,  would  set  on  one  egg;  of 
hens  that,  having  hatched  families,  straightway  led  them  into 
all  manner  of  high  grass  and  weeds,  by  which  means  numer- 
ous young  chicks  caught  premature  colds  and  perished ;  and 
how,  when  I,  with  manifold  toil,  had  driven  one  of  these  in- 
considerate gadders  into  a  coop,  to  teach  her  domestic  habits, 
the  rats  came  down  upon  her  and  slew  every  chick  in  one 
night ;  how  my  pigs  wTere  always  practising  gymnastic  exer- 
cises over  the  fence  of  the  sty,  and  marauding  in  the  garden. 
I  wonder  that  Fourier  never  conceived  the  idea  of  having 
his  garden  land  ploughed  by  pigs  ;  for  certainly  they  manifest 
quite  a  decided  elective  attraction  for  turning  up  the  earth. 

When  autumn  came,  I  went  soberly  to  market,  in  the  neigh- 
boring city,  and  bought  my  potatoes  and  turnips  like  any  other 
man ;  for,  between  all  the  various  systems  of  gardening  pur- 
sued, I  was  obliged  to  confess  that  my  first  horticultural  effort 
was  a  decided  failure.  But  though  all  my  rural  visions  had 
proved  illusive,  there  were  some  very  substantial  realities. 
My  bill  at  the  seed  store,  for  seeds,  roots,  and  tools,  for  ex- 
ample, had  run  up  to  an  amount  that  was  perfectly  unaccount- 
able ;  then  there  were  various  smaller  items,  such  as  horse 
shoeing,  carriage  mending  —  for  he  who  lives  in  the  country 
and  does  business  in  the  city  must  keep  his  vehicle  and  ap- 
purtenances. I  had  always  prided  myself  on  being  an  exact 
man,  and  settling  every  account,  great  and  small,  with  the  going 
out  of  the  old  year;  but  this  season  I  found  myself  sorely  put 
to  it.     In  fact,  had  not  I  received  a  timely  lift  from  my  good 


A    SCHOLAR'S    ADVENTURES    IN    THE    COUNTRY.        363 

old  uncle,  I  should  have  made  a  complete  break  down.  The  old 
gentleman's  troublesome  habit  of  ciphering  and  calculating,  if 
seems,  had  led  him  beforehand  to  foresee  that  I  was  not  ex- 
actly in  the  money-making  line,  nor  likely  to  possess  much 
surplus  revenue  to  meet  the  note  which  I  had  given  for  my 
place  ;  and,  therefore,  he  quietly  paid  it  himself, -as  I  discovered, 
when,  after  much  anxiety  and  some  sleepless  nights,  I  went 
to  the  holder  to  ask  for  an  extension  of  credit. 

"  He  was  right,  after  all,"  said  I  to  my  wife  ;  "  '  to  live  cheap 
in  the  country,  a  body  must  know  how.' " 


a 


WOMAN,  BEHOLD  THY  SON! 


Tite  golden  rays  of  a  summer  afternoon  were  streaming 
through  the  windows  of  a  quiet  apartment,  where  every  thing 
was  the  picture  of  orderly  repose.  Gently  and  noiselessly  they 
glide,  gilding  the  glossy  old  chairs,  polished  by  years  of  care  ; 
fluttering  with  flickering  gleam  on  the  bookcases,  by  the  fire, 
and  the  antique  China  vases  on  the  mantel,  and  even  coquet- 
ing  with  sparkles  of  fanciful  gayety  over  the  face  of  the  per- 
pendicular, sombre  old  clock,  which,  though  at  times  apparent- 
ly coaxed  almost  to  the  verge  of  a  smile,  still  continued  its  in- 
evitable tick,  as  for  a  century  before. 

On  the  hearth  rug  lay  outstretched  a  great,  lazy-looking, 
Maltese  cat,  evidently  enjoying  the  golden  beam  that  fell  upon 
his  sober  sides,  and  sleepily  opening  and  shutting  his  great 
green  eyes,  as  if  lost  in  luxurious  contemplation. 

But  the  most  characteristic  figure  in  the  whole  picture  was 
that  of  an  aged  woman,  who  sat  quietly  rocking  to  and  fro 
in  a  great  chair  by  the  side  of  a  large  round  table  covered 
with  books.  There  was  a  quiet  beauty  in  that  placid  face  — 
that  silvery  hair  brushed  neatly  under  the  snowy  border  of 
the  cap.  Every  line  in  that  furrowed  face  told  some  tale  of 
sorrow  long  assuaged,  and  passions  hushed  to  rest,  as  on  the 

(364) 


"  WOMAN,    BEHOLD    THY    SON  !  "  365 

calm  ocean  shore  the  golden-furrowed  sand  shows  traces  of 
storms  and  fluctuations  long  past. 

On  the  round,  green-covered  table  beside  her  lay  the 
quiet  companion  of  her  age,  the  large  Bible,  whose  pages,  like 
the  gates  of  the  celestial  city,  were  not  shut  at  all  by  day,  a 
few  old  standard  books,  and  the  pleasant,  rippling  knitting, 
whose  dreamy,  irresponsible  monotony  is  the  best  music 
of  age. 

A  fair,  girlish  form  was  seated  by  the  table  ;  the  dress  bonnet 
had  fallen  back  on  her  shoulders,  the  soft  cheeks  were  suffused 
and  earnest,  the  long  lashes  and  the -veiled  eyes  were  eloquent 
of  subdued  feeling,  as  she  read  aloud  from  the  letter  in  her 
hand.  It  was  from  "  our  Harry,"  a  name  to  both  of  them 
comprising  all  that  was  dear  and  valued  on  earth,  for  he  was 
"  the  only  son  of  his  mother,  and  she  a  widow ; "  yet  had 
he  not  been  always  an  only  one ;  flower  after  flower  on  the 
tree  of  her  life  had  bloomed  and  died,  and  gradually,  as  waters 
cut  off  from  many  channels,  the  streams  of  love  had  cen- 
tred deeper  in  this  last  and  only  one. 

And,  in  truth,  Harry  Sargeant  was  all  that  a  mother  might 
desire  or  be  proud  of.  Generous,  high-minded,  witty,  and 
talented,  and  with  a  strong  and  noble  physical  development- 
he  seemed  born  to  command  the  love  of  women.  The  only 
trouble  with  him  was,  in  common  parlance,  that  he  was  too 
clever  a  fellow ;  he  was  too  social,  too  impressible,  too  ver- 
satile,  too  attractive,  and  too  much  in  demand  for  his  own 
good.  He  always  drew  company  about  him,  as  honey  draws 
flies,  and  was  indispensable  every  where  and  to  every  body; 
and  it  needs  a  steady  head  and  firm  nerves  for  such  a  one  to 
escape  ruin. 

Harry's  course  in  college,  though  brilliant  in  scholarship,  had 
31* 


366  "WOMAN,    BEHOLD   THY    SON  !  " 

been  critical  and  perilous.  He  was  a  decided  favorite  with 
the-  faculty  and  students  ;  yet  it  required  a  great  deal  of  hard 
winking  and  adroit  management  on  the  part  of  his  instructors 
to  bring  him  through  without  infringment  of  college  laws 
and  proprieties  :  not  that  he  ever  meant  the  least  harm  in  his 
life,  but  that  some  extra  generous  impulse,  some  quixotic  gen- 
erosity, was  always  tumbling  him,  neck  and  heels,  into  some- 
body's scrapes,  and  making  him  part  and  parcel  in  every  piece 
of  mischief  that  was  going  on. 

With  all  this  premised,  there  is  no  need  to  say  that  Harry 
was  a  special  favorite  with  ladies ;  in  truth,  it  was  a  confessed 
fact  among  his  acquaintances,  that,  whereas  dozens  of  creditable, 
respectable,  well-to-do  young  men  might  besiege  female  hearts 
with  every  proper  formality,  waiting  at  the  gates  and  watch- 
ing at  the  posts  of  the  doors  in  vain,  yet  before  him  all  gates  and 
passages  seemed  to  fly  open  of  their  own  accord.  Nevertheless, 
there  was  in  his  native  village  one  quiet  maiden  who  held  alone 
in  her  hand  the  key  that  could  unlock  his  heart  in  return,  and 
carried  silently  in  her  own  the  spell  that  could  fetter  that 
brilliant,  restless  spirit ;  and  she  it  wras,  of  the  thoughtful  brow 
and  downcast  eyes,  whom  we  saw  in  our  picture,  bending  over 
the  letter  with  his  mother. 

That  mother  Harry  loved  to  idolatry.  She  was  to  his  mind 
an  impersonation  of  all  that  was  lovely  in  womanhood,  hal- 
lowed and  sainted  by  age,  by  wisdom,  by  sorrow ;  and  his  love 
for  her  was  a  beautiful  union  of  protective  tenderness,  with 
veneration  ;  and  to  his  Ellen  it  seemed  the  best  and  most  sacred 
evidence  of  the  nobleness  of  his  nature,  and  of  the  worth  of 
the  heart  which  he  had  pledged  to  her. 

Nevertheless,  there  was  a  danger  overhanging  the  heads  of 
the  three  —  a  little  cloud,  no  bigger  than  a  man's  hand,  rising 


"  WOMAN,    BEHOLD    THY    SON!"  3()7 

in  the  horizon  of  their  hopes,  yet  destined  to  burst  upon  them, 
dark  and  dreadful,  in  a  future  day. 

In  those  scenes  of  college  hilarity  where  Harry  had  been 
so  indispensable,  the  bright,  poetic  wine  cup  had  freely  circu- 
lated, and  often  amid  the  flush  of  conversation,  and  the  genial 
excitement  of  the  hour,  he  had  drank  freer  and  deeper  than 
was  best. 

He  said,  it  is  true,  that  he  cared  nothing  for  it,  that  it  was 
nothing  to  him,  that  it  never  affected  him,  and  all  those  things 
that  young  men  always  say  when  the  cup  of  Circe  is  beginning 
its  work  with  them.  Friends  were  annoyed,  became  anxious, 
remonstrated ;  but  he  laughed  at  their  fears,  and  insisted  on 
knowing  himself  best.  At  last,  with  a  sudden  start  and  shiver  of 
his  moral  nature,  he  was  awakened  to  a  dreadful  perception  of 
his  danger,  and  resolved  on  decided  and  determinate  resistance. 
During  this  period  he  came  to  Cincinnati  to  establish  himself 
in  business,  and  as  at  this  time  the  temperance  reformation 
was  in  full  tide  of  success  there,  he  found  every  thing  to 
strengthen  his  resolution ;  temperance  meetings  and  speeches 
were  all  the  mode  ;  young  men  of  the  first  standing  were  its 
patrons  and  supporters ;  wine  was  quite  in  the  vocative,  and 
seemed  really  in  danger  of  being  voted  out  of  society.  In 
such  a  turn  of  affairs,  to  sign  a  temperance  pledge  and  keep 
it  became  an  easy  thing ;  temptation  was  scarce  presented  or 
felt ;  he  was  offered  the  glass  in  no  social  circle,  met  its  attrac- 
tion nowhere,  and  flattered  himself  that  he  had  escaped  so 
great  a  danger  easily  and  completely. 

His  usual  fortune  of  social  popularity  followed  him,  and 
his  visiting  circle  became  full  as  large  and  importunate  as  a 
young  man  with  any  thing  else  to  do  need  desire.  He  was 
diligent  in  his  application  to  business,  began  to  be  mentioned 


368  "woman,  behold  thy  son!" 

with  approbation  by  the  magnates  as  a  rising  young  man, 
and  had  prospects  daily  nearing  of  competence  and  home,  and 
all  that  man  desires  —  visions,  alas !  never  to  be  realized. 

For  after  a  while  the  tide  that  had  risen  so  high  began  im- 
perceptibly to  decline.  Men  that  had  made  eloquent  speeches 
on  temperance  had  now  other  things  to  look  to.  Fastidious 
persons  thought  that  matters  had,  perhaps,  been  carried  too 
far,  and  ladies  declared  that  it  was  old  and  threadbare,  and 
getting  to  be  cant  and  stuff ;  and  the  ever-ready  wine  cup  was 
gliding  back  into  many  a  circle,  as  if,  on  sober  second  thoughts, 
the  community  was  convinced  that  it  was  a  friend  unjustly 
belied. 

There  is  no  point  in  the  history  of  reform,  either  in  com- 
munities or  individuals,  so  dangerous  as  that  where  danger 
seems  entirely  past.  As  long  as  a  man  thinks  his  health  fail- 
ing, he  watches,  he  diets,  and  will  undergo  the  most  heroic 
self-denial ;  but  let  him  once  set  himself  down  as  cured,  and 
how  readily  does  he  fall  back  to  one  soft  indulgent  habit  after 
another,  all  tending  to  ruin  every  thing  that  he  has  before 
done  ! 

So  in  communities.  .  Let  intemperance  rage,  and  young 
men  go  to  ruin  by  dozens,  and  the  very  evil  inspires  the  rem- 
edy ;  but  when  the  trumpet  has  been  sounded,  and  the  battle 
set  in  array,  and  the  victory  only  said  and  sung  in  speeches, 
and  newspaper  paragraphs,  and  temperance  odes,  and  proces- 
sions, then  comes  the  return  wave  ;  people  cry,  Enough  ;  the 
community,  vastly  satisfied,  lies  down  to  sleep  in  its  laurels  ; 
and  then  comes  the  hour  of  danger. 

But  let  not  the  man  who  has  once  been  swept  down  the 
stream  of  intemperate  excitement,  almost  to  the  verge  of  ruin, 
dream  of  any  point  of  security  for  him.     He  is  like  one  who  has 


369 


awakened  in  the  rapids  of  Niagara,  and  with  straining  oar 
and  wild  prayers  to  Heaven,  forced  his  boat  upward  into 
smoother  water,  where  the  draught  of  the  current  seems  to 
cease,  and  the  banks  smile,  and  all  looks  beautiful,  and  weary 
from  rowing,  lays  by  his  oar  to  rest  and  dream  ;  he  knows 
not  that  under  that  smooth  water  still  glides  a  current,  that 
while  he  dreams,  is  imperceptibly  but  surely  hurrying  him 
back  whence  there  is  no  return. 

Harry  was  just  in  this  perilous  point ;  he  viewed  danger  as 
long  past,  his  self-confidence  was  fully  restored,  and  in  his 
security  he  began  to  neglect  those  lighter  outworks  of  caution 
which  he  must  still  guard  who  does  not  mean,  at  last,  to  sur- 
render the  citadel. 


"  Now,  girls  and  boys,"  said  Mrs.  G.  to  her  sons  and  daugh- 
ters, who  were  sitting  round  a  centre  table  covered  with  notes 
of  invitation,  and  all  the  preliminary  et  cetera  of  a  party, 
"  what  shall  we  have  on  Friday  night  ?  —  tea,  coffee,  lemon- 
ade, wine  ?  of  course  not." 

"  And  why  not  wine,  mamma  ?  "  said  the  young  ladies  ; 
"  the  people  are  beginning  to  have  it ;  they  had  wine  at  Mrs. 
A.'s  and  Mrs.  B.'s." 

"  Well,  your  papa  thinks  it  won't  do,  —  the  boys  are  mem- 
bers of  the  temperance  society,  —  and  /  don't  think,  girls,  it 
will  do  myself." 

There  are  many  good  sort  of  people,  by  the  by,  who  always 
view  moral  questions  in  this  style  of  phraseology  —  not  what 
is  right,  but  what  will  "  do" 

The  girls  made  an  appropriate  reply  to  this  view  of  the 
subject,  by  showing  that  Mrs.  A.  and  Mrs.  B.  had  done  the 
thing,  and  nobody  seemed  to  make  any  talk. 


370  "  WOMAN,    BEnOLD    THY    SON  !  " 

The  boys,  who  thus  far  in  the  conversation  had  been 
thoughtfully  rapping  their  boots  with  their  canes,  now  inter- 
posed, and  said  that  they  would  rather  not  have  wine  if  it 
wouldn't  look  shabby. 

"  But  it  ivill  look  shabby,"  said  Miss  Fanny.  "  Lemons, 
you  know,  are  scarce  to  be  got  for  any  price,  and  as  for  lemon- 
ade made  of  sirup,  it's  positively  vulgar  and  detestable  ;  it 
tastes  just  like  cream  of  tartar  and  spirits  of  turpentine." 

"  For  my. part,"  said  Emma,  "  I  never  did  see  the  harm  of 
wine,  even  when  people  were  making  the  most  fuss  about  it ; 
to  be  sure  rum  and  brandy  and  all  that  are  bad,  but  wine " 

"  And  so  convenient  to  get,"  said  Fanny  ;  "  and  no  decent 
young  man  ever  gets  drunk  at  parties,  so  it  can't  do  any  harm  ; 
besides,  one  must  have  something,  and,  as  I  said,  it  will  look 
shabby  not  to  have  it." 

Now,  there  is  no  imputation  that  young  men  are  so  much 
afraid  of,  especially  from  the  lips  of  ladies,  as  that  of  shabbi- 
ness ;  and  as  it  happened  in  this  case  as  most  others  that  the 
young  ladies  were  the  most  efficient  talkers,  the  question  was 
finally  carried  on  their  side. 

Mrs.  G.  was  a  mild  and  a  motherly  woman,  just  the  one 
fitted  to  inspire  young  men  with  confidence  and  that  home 
feeling  which  all  men  desire  to  find  somewhere.  Her  house 
was  a  free  and  easy  ground,  social  for  most  of  the  young 
people  of  her  acquaintance,  and  Harry  was  a  favorite  and 
domesticated  visitor. 

During  the  height  of  the  temperance  reform,  fathers  and 
brothers  had  given  it  their  open  and  decided  support,  and 
Mrs.  G.  —  always  easily  enlisted  for  any  good  movement  — 
sympathized  warmly  in  their  endeavors.  The  great  fault  was, 
that  too  often  incident  to  the  gentleness  of  woman  —  a  want 


"  WOMAN,    BEHOLD    THY    SON  !  "  371 

of  self-reliant  principle.  Her  virtue  was  too  much  the  result 
of  mere  sympathy,  too  little  of  her  own  conviction.  Hence, 
when  those  she  loved  grew  cold  towards  a  good  cause,  they 
found  no  sustaining  power  in  her,  and  those  who  were  relying 
on  her  judgment  and  opinions  insensibly  controlled  them. 
Notwithstanding,  she  was  a  woman  that  always  acquired  a 
great  influence  over  young  men,  and  Harry  had  loved  and 
revered  her  with  something  of  the  same  sentiment  that  he 
cherished  towards  his  own  mother. 

It  was  the  most  brilliant  party  of  the  season.  Every  thing 
was  got  up  in  faultless  taste,  and  Mrs.  G.  was  in  the  very 
spirit  of  it.  The  girls  were  looking  beautifully ;  the  rooms 
were  splendid ;  there  was  enough  and  not  too  much  of  light 
and  warmth,  and  all  were  doing  their  best  to  please  and  be 
cheerful.  Harry  was  more  brilliant  than  usual,  and  in  fact 
outdid  himself.     Wit  and  mind  were  the  spirit  of  the  hour. 

"  Just  taste  this  tokay,"  said  one  of  the  sisters  to  him ;  "  it 
has  just  been  sent  us  from  Europe,  and  is  said  to  be  a  genuine 
article." 

"  You  know  I'm  not  in  that  line,"  said  Harry,  laughing  and 
coloring. 

"  Why  not  ?  "  said  another  young  lady,  taking  a  glass. 

"  O,  the  temperance  pledge,  you  know !  I  am  one  of  the 
pillars  of  the  order,  a  very  apostle  ;  it  will  never  do  for  me." 

"  Pshaw !  those  temperance  pledges  are  like  the  proverb, 
'  something  musty,'  "  said  a  gay  girl. 

"  Well,  but  you  said  you  had  a  headache  the  beginning  of 
the  evening,  and  you  really  look  pale  ;  you  certainly  need  it 
as  a  medicine,"  said  Fanny.  "  I'll  leave  it  to  mamma ; "  and 
she  turned  to  Mrs.  G.,  who  stood  gayly  entertaining  a  group 
of  young  people. 


372  "  WOMAN,    BEHOLD    THY    SON  !  " 

"  Nothing  more  likely,"  replied  she,  gayly  ;  "  I  think,  Harry, 
you  have  looked  pale  lately  ;  a  glass  of  wine  might  do  you 
good." 

Had  Mrs.  Gr.  known  all  of  Harry's  past  history  and  temp- 
tations, and  had  she  not  been  in  just  the  inconsiderate  state 
that  very  good  ladies  sometimes  get  into  at  a  party,  she 
would  sooner  have  sacrificed  her  right  hand  than  to  have 
thrown  this  observation  into  the  scales  ;  but  she  did,  and  they 
turned  the  balance  for  him. 

"  You  shall  be  my  doctor,"  he  said,  as,  laughing  and  coloring, 
he  drank  the  glass  —  and  where  was  the  harm  ?  One  glass 
of  wine  kills  nobody  ;  and  yet  if  a  man  falls,  and  knows  that  in 
that  glass  he  sacrifices  principle  and  conscience,  every  drop 
may  be  poison  to  the  soul  and  body. 

Harry  felt  at  that  very  time  that  a  great  internal  barrier 
had  given  way  ;  nor  was  that  glass  the  only  one  that  evening  ; 
another,  and  another,  and  another  followed  ;  his  spirits  rose 
with  the  wild  and  feverish  gayety  incident  to  his  excitable 
temperament,  and  what  had  been  begun  in  the  society  of 
ladies  was  completed  late  at  night  in  the  gentlemen's  saloon. 

Nobody  ever  knew,  or  thought,  or  recognized  that  that  one 
party  had  forever  undone  this  young  man  ;  and  yet  so  it  was. 
From  that  night  his  struggle  of  moral  resistance  was  fatally 
impaired  ;  not  that  he  yielded  at  once  and  without  desperate 
efforts  and  struggles,  but  gradually  each  struggle  grew  weaker, 
each  reform  shorter,  each  resolution  more  inefficient ;  yet  at 
the  close  of  the  evening  all  those  friends,  mother,  brother,  and 
sister,  flattered  themselves  that  every  thing  had  gone  on  so 
well  that  the  next  week  Mrs.  H.  thought  that  it  would  do  to 
give  wine  at  the  party  because  Mrs.  G.  had  done  it  last  week, 
and  no  harm  had  come  of  it. 


"  WOMAN,    BEHOLD    THY    SON  !  "  373 

In  about  a  year  after,  the  G.'s  began  to  notice  and  lament 
the  habits  of  their  young  friend,  and  all  unconsciously  to  won- 
der how  such  a  fine  young  man  should  be  so  led  astray. 

Harry  was  of  a  decided  and  desperate  nature  ;  his  affections 
and  bis  moral  sense  waged  a  fierce  war  with  the  terrible 
tyrant  —  the  madness  that  had  possessed  him ;  and  when  at 
last  all  hope  died  out,  he  determined  to  avoid  the  anguish  and 
shame  of  a  drunkard's  life  by  a  suicide's  death.  Then  came 
to  the  trembling,  heart-stricken  mother  and  beloved  one  a 
wild,  incoherent  letter  of  farewell,  and  he  disappeared  from 
among  the  living. 

In  the  same  quiet  parlor,  where  the  sunshine  still  streams 
through  flickering  leaves,  it  now  rested  on  the  polished  sides 
and  glittering  plate  of  a  coffin ;  there  at  last  lay  the  weary  at 
rest,  the  soft,  shining  gray  hair  was  still  gleaming  as  before, 
but  deeper  furrows  on  the  wan  cheek,  and  a  weary,  heavy 
languor  over  the  pale,  peaceful  face,  told  that  those  gray  hairs 
had  been  brought  down  in  sorrow  to  the  grave.  Sadder  still 
was  the  story  on  the  cloudless  cheek  and  lips  of  the  young 
creature  bending  in  quiet  despair  over  her.  Poor  Ellen  !  her 
life's  thread,  woven  with  these  two  beloved  ones,  was  broken. 

And  may  all  this  happen  ?  —  nay,  does  it  not  happen  ?  — 
just  such  things  happen  to  young  men  among  us  every  day. 
And  do  they  not  lead  in  a  thousand  ways  to  sorrows  just  like 
these  ?  And  is  there  not  a  responsibility  on  all  who  ought 
to  be  the  guardians  of  the  safety  and  purity  of  the  other 
sex,  to  avoid  setting  before  them  the  temptation  to  which  so 
often  and  so  fatally  manhood  has  yielded  ?  What  is  a  paltry 
consideration  of  fashion,  compared  to  the  safety  of  sons, 
brothers,  and  husbands  ?  The  greatest  fault  of  womanhood 
is  slavery  to  custom  ;  and  yet  who  but  woman  makes  custom  ? 
32 


o74  "  WOMAN,    BEHOLD    THY    SON  !  " 

Are  not  all  the  usages  and  fashions  of  polite  society  more  her 
work  than  that  of  man  ?  And  let  every  mother  and  sister 
think  of  the  mothers  and  sisters  of  those  who  come  within 
the  range  of  their  influence,  and  say  to  themselves,  when  in 
thoughtlessness  they  discuss  questions  affecting  their  interests, 
"  Behold  thy  brother  !  "  —  "  Behold  thy  son  !  " 


THE    CORAL    RING 


"There  is  no  time  of  life  in  which  young  girls  are  so 
thoroughly  selfish  as  from  fifteen  to  twenty,"  said  Edward 
Ashton,  deliberately,  as  he  laid  down  a  book  he  had  been 
reading,  and  leaned  over  the  centre  table. 

"  You  insulting  fellow ! "  replied  a  tall,  brilliant-looking 
creature,  who  was  lounging  on  an  ottoman  hard  by,  over  one 
of  Dickens's  last  works. 

"  Truth,  coz,  for  all  that,"  said  the  gentleman,  with  the  air 
of  one  who  means  to  provoke  a  discussion. 

"  Now,  Edward,  this  is  just  one  of  your  wholesale  declara- 
tions, for  nothing  only  to  get  me  into  a  dispute  with  you,  you 
know,"  replied  the  lady.  "  On  your  conscience,  now,  (if  you 
have  one,)  is  it  not  so  ?  " 

"  My  conscience  feels  quite  easy,  cousin,  in  subscribing  to 
that  sentiment  as  my  confession  of  faith,"  replied  the  gentle- 
man, with  provoking  sang  froid. 

"  Pshaw !  it's  one  of  your  fusty  old  bachelor  notions.  See 
what  comes,  now,  of  your  living  to  your  time  of  life  without 
a  wife  —  disrespect  for  the  sex,  and  all  that.  Really,  cousin, 
your  symptoms  are  getting  alarming." 

ki  Nay,  now,  Cousin  Florence,"  said  Edward,  "  you  are  a 

(375) 


376  THE    CORAL    RING. 

girl  of  moderately  good  sense,  with  all  your  nonsense.  Now 
don't  you  (I  know  you  do)  think  just  so  too  ?" 

"  Think  just  so  too  !  —  do  you  hear  the  creature  ?  "  replied 
Florence.  "  No,  sir ;  you  can  speak  for  yourself  in  this  mat- 
ter, but  I  beg  leave  to  enter  my  protest  when  you  speak  for 
me  too." 

"  Well,  now,  where  is  there,  coz,  among  all  our  circle,  a 
young  girl  that  has  any  sort  of  purpose  or  object  in  life,  to 
speak  of,  except  to  make  herself  as  interesting  and  agreeable 
as  possible  ?  to  be  admired,  and  to  pass  her  time  in  as  amusing 
a  way  as  she  can  ?  Where  will  you  find  one  between  fifteen 
and  twenty  that  has  any  serious  regard  for  the  improvement 
and  best  welfare  of  those  with  whom  she  is  connected  at  all, 
or  that  modifies  her  conduct,  in  the  least,  with  reference  to  it  ? 
Now,  cousin,  in  very  serious  earnest,  you  have  about  as  much 
real  character,  as  much  earnestness  and  depth  of  feeling,  and 
as  much  good  sense,  when  one  can  get  at  it,  as  any  young  lady 
of  them  all ;  and  yet,  on  your  conscience,  can  you  say  that  you 
live  with  any  sort  of  reference  to  any  body's  good,  or  to  any 
thing  but  your  own  amusement  and  gratification  ?  " 

"  What  a  shocking  adjuration  ! "  replied  the  lady ;  "  pref- 
aced, too,  by  a  three-story  compliment.  Well,  being  so  ad- 
jured, I  must  think  to  the  best  of  my  ability.  And  now, 
seriously  and  soberly,  I  don't  see  as  I  am  selfish.  I  do  all 
that  I  have  any  occasion  to  do  for  any  body.  You  know  that 
we  have  servants  to  do  every  thing  that  is  necessary  about  the 
house,  so  that  there  is  no  occasion  for  my  making  any  display 
of  housewifery  excellence.  And  I  wait  on  mamma  if  she  has 
a  headache,  and  hand  papa  bis  slippers  and  newspaper,  and 
find  Uncle  John's  spectacles  for  him  twenty  times  a  day,  (no 
small  matter,  that,)  and  then " 


THE    CORAL    RING. 


377 


"  But,  after  all,  what  is  the  object  and  purpose  of  your 
life  ? " 

"  Why,  I  haven't  any.  I  don't  see  how  I  can  have  any  — 
that  is,  as  I  am  made.  Now,  you  know,  I've  none  of  the  fuss- 
ing, baby-tending,  herb-tea-making  recommendations  of  Aunt 
Sally,  and  divers  others  of  the  class  commonly  called  useful. 
Indeed,  to  tell  the  truth,  I  think  useful  persons  are  commonly 
rather  fussy  and  stupid.  They  are  just  like  the  boneset,  and 
hoarhound,  and  catnip  —  very  necessary  to  be  raised  in  a  gar- 
den, but  not  in  the  least  ornamental." 

"  And  you  charming  young  ladies,  who  philosophize  in  kid 
slippers  and  French  dresses,  are  the  tulips  and  roses  —  very 
charming,  and  delightful,  and  sweet,  but  fit  for  nothing  on 
earth  but  parlor  ornaments." 

"  Well,  parlor  ornaments  are  good  in  their  way,"  said  the 
young  lady,  coloring,  and  looking  a  little  vexed. 

"  So  you  give  up  the  point,  then,"  said  the  gentleman,  "  that 
you  girls  are  goo'd  for — just  to  amuse  yourselves,  amuse  oth- 
ers, look  pretty,  and  be  agreeable." 

"  Well,  and  if  we  behave  well  to  our  parents,  and  are 
amiable  in  the  family  —  I  don't  know  —  and  yet,"  said  Flor- 
ence, sighing,  "  I  have  often  had  a  sort  of  vague  idea  of  some- 
thing higher  that  we  might  become ;  yet,  really,  what  more 
than  this  is  expected  of  us  ?  what  else  can  we  do  ?  " 

"  I  used  to  read  in  old-fashioned  novels  about  ladies  visiting 
the  sick  and  the  poor,"  replied  Edward.  "You  remember 
Coelebs  in  Search  of  a  Wife  ?  " 

"  Yes,  truly ;  that  is  to  say,  I  remember  the  story  part  of  it, 
and  the  love  scenes ;  but  as  for  all  those  everlasting  conversa- 
tions of  Dr.  Barlow,  Mr.  Stanley,  and  nobody  knows  who  else, 
I  skipped  those,  of  course.     But  really,  this  visiting  and  tend- 
32* 


378  THE    CORAL    RING. 

jng  the  poor,  and  all  that,  seems  very  well  in  a  story,  where 
the  lady  goes  into  a  picturesque  cottage,  half  overgrown  with 
honeysuckle,  and  finds  an  emaciated,  but  still  beautiful  woman 
propped  up  by  pillows.  But  come  to  the  downright  matter 
of  fact  of  poking  about  in  all  these  vile,  dirty  alleys,  and  en- 
tering little  dark  rooms,  amid  troops  of  grinning  children,  and 
smelling  codfish  and  onions,  and  nobody  knows  what  —  dear 
me,  my  benevolence  always  evaporates  before  I  get  through. 
I'd  rather  pay  any  body  five  dollars  a  day  to  do  it  for  me  than 
do  it  myself.  The  fact  is,  that  I  have  neither  fancy  nor 
nerves  for  this  kind  of  thing." 

"Well,  granting,  then,  that  you  can  do  nothing  for  your 
fellow-creatures  unless  you  are  to  do  it  in  the  most  genteel, 
comfortable,  and  picturesque  manner  possible,  is  there  not  a 
great  field  for  a  woman  like  you,  Florence,  in  your  influence 
over  your  associates  ?  With  your  talents  for  conversation, 
your  tact,  and  self-possession,  and  ladylike  gift  of  saying  any 
thing  you  choose,  are  you  not  responsible,  in  some  wise,  for 
the  influence  you  exert  over  those  by  whom  you  are  sur- 
rounded ?  " 

"  I  never  thought  of  that,"  replied  Florence. 

"  Now,  you  remember  the  remarks  that  Mr.  Fortesque 
made  the  other  evening  on  the  religious  services  at  church  ?  " 

"  Yes,  I  do  ;  and  I  thought  then  he  was  too  bad." 

"  And  I  do  not  suppose  there  was  one  of  you  ladies  in  the 
room  that  did  not  think  so  too ;  but  yet  the  matter  was  all 
passed  over  with  smiles,  and  with  not  a  single  insinuation  that 
he  had  said  any  thing  unpleasing  or  disagreeable." 

"  Well,  what  could  we  do  ?  One  does  not  want  to  be  rude, 
you  know." 

"  Do !     Could  you  not,  Florence,  you  who   have   always 


THE    CORAL    RING.  379 

taken  the  lead  in  society,  and  who  have  been  noted  for  always 
being  able  to  say  and  do  what  you  please  —  could  you  not 
have  shown  him  that  those  remarks  were  unpleasing  to  you, 
as  decidedly  as  you  certainly  would  have  done  if  they  had 
related  to  the  character  of  your  father  or  brother  ?  To  my 
mind,  a  woman  of  true  moral  feeling  should  consider  herself 
as  much  insulted  when  her  religion  is  treated  with  contempt 
as  if  the  contempt  were  shown  to  herself.  Do  you  not  know 
the  power  which  is  given  to  you  women  to  awe  and  restrain 
us  in  your  presence,  and  to  guard  the  sacredness  of  things 
which  you  treat  as  holy  ?  Believe  me,  Florence,  that  For- 
tesque,  infidel  as  he  is,  would  reverence  a  woman  with  whom 
he  dared  not  trifle  on  sacred  subjects." 

Florence  rose  from  her  seat  with  a  heightened  color,  her 
dark  eyes  brightening  through  tears. 

"  I  am  sure  what  you  say  is  just,  cousin,  and  yet  I  have 
never  thought  of  it  before.  I  will  —  I  am  determined  to 
begin,  after  this,  to  live  with  some  better  purpose  than  I  have 
done." 

"And  let  me  tell  you,  Florence,  in  starting  a  new  course, 
as  in  learning  to  walk,  taking  the  first  step  is  every  thing. 
Now,  I  have  a  first  step  to  propose  to  you." 

"  Well,  cousin " 

"  Well,  you  know,  I  suppose,  that  among  your  train  of 
adorers  you  number  Colonel  Elliot  ?  " 

Florence  smiled. 

u  And  perhaps  you  do  not  know,  what  is  certainly  true,  that, 
among  the  most  discerning  and  cool  part  of  his  friends,  Elliot 
is  considered  as  a  lost  man." 

"  Good  Heavens  !     Edward,  what  do  you  mean  ?  " 

"  Simply  this  :  that  with  all  his  brilliant  talents,  his  amiable 


380  THE    CORAL    RING. 

and  generous  feelings,  and  his  success  in  society,  Elliot  has 
not  self-control  enough  to  prevent  his  becoming  confirmed  in 
intemperate  habits." 

"  I  never  dreamed  of  this,"  replied  Florence.  "  I  knew  that 
he  was  spirited  and  free,  fond  of  society,  and  excitable ;  but 
never  suspected  any  thing  beyond." 

"  Elliot  has  tact  enough  never  to  appear  in  ladies'  society 
when  he  is  not  in  a  fit  state  for  it,"  replied  Edward  ;  "  but  yet 
it  is  so." 

"  But  is  he  really  so  bad  ?  " 

"  He  stands  just  on  the  verge,  Florence  ;  just  where  a  word 
fitly  spoken  might  turn  him.  He  is  a  noble  creature,  full  of 
all  sorts  of  fine  impulses  and  feelings  ;  the  only  son  of  a 
mother  who  dotes  on  him,  the  idolized  brother  of  sisters  who 
love  him  as  you  love  your  brother,  Florence  ;  and  he  stands 
where  a  word,  a  look  —  so  they  be  of  the  right  kind  —  might 
save  him." 

"  And  why,  then,  do  you  not  speak  to  him  ? "  said  Florence. 

"  Because  I  am  not  the  best  person,  Florence.  There  is 
another  who  can  do  it  better ;  one  whom  he  admires,  who 
stands  in  a  position  which  would  forbid  his  feeling  angry ;  a 
person,  cousin,  whom  I  have  heard  in  gayer  moments  say  that 
she  knew  how  to  say  any  thing  she  pleased  without  offending 
any  body." 

"  O  Edward  !  "  said  Florence,  coloring ;  "  do  not  bring  up 
my  foolish  speeches  against  me,  and  do  not  speak  as  if  I  ought 
to  interfere  in  this  matter,  for  indeed  I  cannot  do  it.  I  never 
could  in  the  world,  I  am  certain  I  could  not." 

"And  so,"  said  Edward,  "you,  whom  I  have  heard  say  so 
many  things  which  no  one  else  could  say,  or  dared  to  say  — 
you,  who  have  gone  on  with  your  laughing  assurance  in  your 


THE    CORAL    KING.  381 

own  powers  of  pleasing,  shrink  from  trying  that  power  when  a 
noble  and  generous  heart  might  be  saved  by  it.  You  have  been 
willing  to  venture  a  great  deal  for  the  sake  of  amusing  your- 
self and  winning  admiration  ;  but  you  dare  not  say  a  word  for 
any  high  or  noble  purpose.  Do  you  not  see  how  you  confirm 
what  I  said  of  the  selfishness  of  you  women  ?  " 

"  But  you  must  remember,  Edward,  this  is  a  matter  of  great 
delicacy." 

"  That  word  delicacy  is  a  charming  cover-all  in  all  these 
cases,  Florence.  Now,  here  is  a  fine,  noble-spirited  young  man, 
away  from  his  mother  and  sisters,  away  from  any  family 
friend  who  might  care  for  him,  tempted,  betrayed,  almost  to 
ruin,  and  a  few  words  from  you,  said  as  a  woman  knows  how 
to  say  them,  might  be.  his  salvation.  But  you  will  coldly  look 
on  and  see  him  go  to  destruction,  because  you  have  too  much 
delicacy  to  make  the  effort  —  like  the  man  that  would  not  help 
his  neighbor  out  of  the  water  because  he  had  never  had  the 
honor  of  an  introduction" 

"  But,  Edward,  consider  how  peculiarly  fastidious  Elliot  is 
—  how  jealous  of  any  attempt  to  restrain  and  guide  him." 

"  And  just  for  that  reason  it  is  that  men  of  his  acquaintance 
cannot  do  any  thing  with  him.  But  what  are  you  women 
made  with  so  much  tact  and  power  of  charming  for,  if  it  is 
not  to  do  these  very  things  that  we  cannot  do  ?  It  is  a  deli- 
cate matter  —  true  ;  and  has  not  Heaven  given  to  you  a  fine 
touch  and  a  fine  eye  for  just  such-  delicate  matters  ?  Have  you 
not  seen,  a  thousand  times,  that  what  might  be  resented  as  an 
impertinent  interference  on  the  part  of  a  man,  comes  to  us  as 
a  flattering  expression  of  interest  from  the  lips  of  a  woman?" 

"  Well,  but,  cousin,  what  would  you  have  me  do  ?  How 
would  you  have  me  do  it  ?  "  said  Florence,  earnestly. 


382  THE    CORAL    RING. 

"  You  know  that  Fashion,  which  makes  so  many  wrong  turns, 
and  so  many  absurd  ones,  has  at  last  made  one  good  one,  and 
it  is  now  a  ■  fashionable  thing  to  sign  the  temperance  pledge. 
Elliot  himself  would  be  glad  to  do  it,  but  he  foolishly  commit- 
ted himself  against  it  in  the  outset,  and  now  feels  bound  to 
stand  to  his  opinion.  He  has,  too,  been  rather  rudely  assailed 
by  some  of  the  apostles  of  the  new  state  of  things,  who  did 
not  understand  the  peculiar  points  of  his  character;  in  short, 
I  am  afraid  that  he  will  feel  bound  to  go  to  destruction  for  the 
sake  of  supporting  his  own  opinion.  Now,  if  I  should  under- 
take with  him,  he  might  shoot  me  ;  but  I  hardly  think  there  is 
any  thing  of  the  sort  to  be  apprehended  in  your  case.  Just 
try  your  enchantments ;  you  have  bewitched  wise  men  into 
doing  foolish  things  before  now ;  try,  now,  if  you  can't  bewitch 
a  foolish  man  into  doing  a  wise  thing." 

Florence  smiled  archly,  but  instantly  grew  more  thought- 
ful. 

"Well,  cousin,"  she  said,  "I  will  try.  Though  you  are 
liberal  in  your  ascriptions  of  power,  yet  I  can  put  the  matter 
to  the  test  of  experiment." 


Florence  Elmore  was,  at  the  time  we  speak  of,  in  her  twen- 
tieth year.     Born  of  one  of  the  wealthiest  families  in  , 

highly  educated  and  accomplished,  idolized  by  her  parents 
and  brothers,  she  had  entered  the  world  as  one  born  to  com- 
mand. With  much  native  nobleness  and  magnanimity  of 
character,  witli  warm  and  impulsive  feelings,  and  a  capability 
of  every  thing  high  or  great,  she  had  hitherto  lived  solely  for 
her  own  amusement,  and  looked  on  the  whole  brilliant  cir- 
cle by  which  she  was  surrounded,  with  all  its  various  actors, 


THE    CORAL    RING.  383 

as.  something  got  up  for  her  special  diversion.  The  idea  of 
influencing  any  one,  for  better  or  worse,  by  any  thing  she  ever 
said  or  did,  had  never  occurred  to  her.  The  crowd  of  admirers 
of  the  other  sex,  who,  as  a  matter  of  course,  were  always 
about  her,  she  regarded  as  so  many  sources  of  diversion  ;  but 
the  idea  of  feeling  any  sympathy  with  them  as  human  beings, 
or  of  making  use  of  her  power  over  them  for  their  improve- 
ment, was  one  that  had  never  entered  her  head. 

Edward  Ashton  was  an  old  bachelor  cousin  of  Florence's, 
who,  having  earned  the  title  of  oddity,  in  general  society, 
availed  himself  of  it  to  exercise  a  turn  for  telling  the  truth  to 
the  various  young  ladies  of  his  acquaintance,  especially  to  his 
fair  cousin  Florence.  We  remark,  by  the  by,  that  these  priv- 
ileged truth  tellers  are  quite  a  necessary  of  life  to  young  la- 
dies in  the  full  tide  of  society,  and  we  really  think  it  would 
be  worth  while  for  every  dozen  of  them  to  unite  to  keep  a 
person  of  this  kind  on  a  salary,  for  the  benefit  of  the  whole. 
However,  that  is  nothing  to  our  present  purpose ;  we  must  re- 
turn to  our  fair  heroine,  whom  we  left,  at  the  close  of  the  last 
conversation,  standing  in  deep  revery,  by  the  window. 

"  It's  more  than  half  true,"  she  said  to  herself —  "  more  than 
half.  Here  am  I,  twenty  years  old,  and  never  have  thought 
of  any  thing,  never  done  any  thing,  except  to  amuse  and  gratify 
myself;  no  purpose,  no  object ;  nothing  high,  nothing  dignified, 
nothing  worth  living  for  !  Only  a  parlor  ornament  —  heigh 
ho  !  Well,  I  really  do  believe  I  could  do  something  with  this 
Elliot ;   and  yet  how  dare  I  try  ?  " 

Now,  my  good  readers,  if  you  are  anticipating  a  love  story, 
we  must  hasten  to  put  in  our  disclaimer ;  you  are  quite  mista- 
ken in  the  case.  Our  fair,  brilliant  heroine  was,  at  this  time 
of  speaking,  as  heart-whole   as  the   diamond  on  her  bosom, 


384  THE    CORAL    RING. 

which  reflected  the  light  in  too  many  sparkling  rays  ever  to 
absorb  it.  She  had,  to  be  sure,  half  in,  earnest,  half  in  jest, 
maintained  a  bantering,  platonic  sort  of  friendship  with 
George  Elliot.  She  had  danced,  ridden,  sung,  and  sketched 
with  him  ;  but  so  had  she  with  twenty  other  young  men  ; 
and  as  to  coming  to  any  thing  tender  with  such  a  quick, 
brilliant,  restless  creature,  Elliot  would  as  soon  have  underta- 
ken to  sentimentalize  over  a  glass  of  soda  water.  No  ;  there 
was  decidedly  no  love  in  the  case. 

"  What  a  curious  ring  that  is  ! "  said  Elliot  to  her,  a  day  or 
two  after,  as  they  were  reading  together. 

"  It  is  a  knight's  ring,"  said  she,  playfully,  as  she  drew  it 
off  and  pointed  to  a  coral  cross  set  in  the  gold,  "  a  ring  of  the 
red-cross  knights.  Come,  now,  I've  a  great  mind  to  bind 
you  to  my  service  with  it." 

"  Do,  lady  fair,"  said  Elliot,  stretching  out  his  hand  for  the 
ring. 

"  Know,  then,"  said  she,  "  if  you  take  this  pledge,  that  you 
must  obey  whatever  commands  I  lay  upon  you  in  its  name." 

"  I  swear  !  "  said  Elliot,  in  the  mock  heroic,  and  placed  the 
ring  on  his  finger. 

An  evening  or  two  after,  Elliot  attended  Florence  to  a  party 
at  Mrs.  B.'s.  Every  thing  was  gay  and  brilliant,  and  there 
was  no  lack  either  of  wit  or  wine.  Elliot  was  standing  in  a 
little  alcove,  spread  with  refreshments,  with  a  glass  of  wine  in 
his  hand.  "  I  forbid  it ;  the  cup  is  poisoned  !  "  said  a  voice  in 
his  ear.  He  turned  quickly,  and  Florence  was  at  his  side. 
Every  one  was  busy,  with  laughing  and  talking,  around,  and 
nobody  saw  the  sudden  start  and  flush  that  these  words  pro- 
duced, as  Elliot  looked  earnestly  in  the  lady's  face.  She 
smiled,  and  pointed  playfully  to  the  ring ;  but  after  all,  there 


THE    CORAL    RING.  385 

was  in  her  face  an  expression  of  agitation  and  interest  which 
she  could  not  repress,  and  Elliot  felt,  however  playful  the 
manner,  that  she  was  in  earnest ;  and  as  she  glided  away  in 
the  crowd,  he  stood  with  his  arms  folded,  and  his  eyes  fixed 
on  the  spot  where  she  disappeared. 

"  Is  it  possible  that  I  am  suspected  —  that  there  are  things 
said  of  me  as  if  I  were  in  danger  ?  "  were  the  first  thoughts 
that  flashed  through  his  mind.  How  strange  that  a  man  may 
appear  doomed,  given  up,  and  lost,  to  the  eye  of  every  looker 
on,  before  he  begins  to  suspect  himself!  This  was  the  first 
time  that  any  defined  apprehension  of  loss  of  character  had 
occurred  to  Elliot,  and  he  was  startled  as  if  from  a  dream. 

"  What  the  deuse  is  the  matter  with  you,  Elliot  ?  You 
look  as  solemn  as  a  hearse  ! "  said  a  young  man  near  by. 

"  Has  Miss  Elmore  cut  you  ?  "  said  another. 

"  Come,  man,  have  a  glass,"  said  a  third. 

"Let  him  alone  —  he's  bewitched,"  said  a  fourth.  "I  saw 
the  spell  laid  on  him.  None  of  us  can  say  but  our  turn  may 
come  next." 

An  hour  later,  that  evening,  Florence  was  talking  with  her 
usual  spirit  to  a  group  who  were  collected  around  her,  when, 
suddenly  looking  up,  she  saw  Elliot,  standing  in  an  abstracted 
manner,  at  one  of  the  windows  that  looked  out  into  the  bal- 
cony. 

"  He  is  offended,  I  dare  say,"  she  thought ;  "  but  what  do  I 
care  ?  For  once  in  my  life  I  have  tried  to  do  a  right  thing  —  a 
good  thing.  I  have  risked  giving  offence  for  less  than  this,  many 
a  time."  Still,  Florence  could  not  but  feel  tremulous,  when,  a 
few  moments  after,  Elliot  approached  her  and  offered  his  arm 
for  a  promenade.  They  walked  up  and  down  the  room,  she 
talking  volubly,  and  he  answering  yes  and  no,  till  at  length, 
33 


386  THE    CORAL    RING. 

as  if  by  accident,  he  drew  her  into  the  balcony  which  overhung 
the  garden.  The  moon  was  shining  brightly,  and  every  thing 
without,  in  its  placid  quietness,  contrasted  strangely  with  the 
busy,  hurrying  scene  within. 

"  Miss  Elmore,"  said  Elliot,  abruptly,  "  may  I  ask  you,  sin- 
cerely, had  you  any  design  in  a  remark  you  made  to  me  in  the 
early  part  of  the  evening  ?  " 

Florence  paused,  and  though  habitually  the  most  practised 
and  self-possessed  of  women,  the  color  actually  receded  from 
her  cheek,  as  she  answered,  — 

"  Yes,  Mr.  Elliot ;  I  must  confess  that  I  had." 
"  And  is  it  possible,  then,  that  you  have  heard  any  thing  ?  " 
"  I  have  heard,  Mr.  Elliot,  that  which  makes  me  tremble 
for  you,  and  for  those  whose  life,  I  know,  is  bound  up  in  you ; 
and,  tell  me,  were  it  well  or  friendly  in  me  to  know  that  such 
things  were  said,  that  such  danger  existed,  and  not  to  warn 
you  of  it  ?  " 

Elliot  stood  for  a  few  moments  in  silence. 
"  Have  I  offended  ?     Have  I  taken  too  great  a  liberty  ?  " 
said  Florence,  gently. 

Hitherto  Elliot  had  only  seen  in  Florence  the  self-possessed, 
assured,  light-hearted  woman  of  fashion  ;  but  there  was  a  re- 
ality and  depth  of  feeling  in  the  few  words  she  had  spoken  to 
him,  in  this  interview,  that  opened  to  him  entirely  a  new  view 
in  her  character. 

"  No,  Miss  Elmore,"  replied  he,  earnestly,  after  some  pause ; 
"  I  may  be  pained,  offended  I  cannot  be.  To  tell  the  truth,  I 
have  been  thoughtless,  excited,  dazzled ;  my  spirits,  natu- 
rally buoyant,  have  carried  me,  often,  too  far ;  and  lately  I 
have  painfully  suspected  my  own  powers  of  resistance.  I 
have  really  felt  that  I  needed  help,  but  have  been  too  proud 


THE    CORAL    RING.  387 

to  confess,  even  to  myself,  that  I  needed  it.  You,  Miss  Elmore, 
have  done  what,  perhaps,  no  one  else  could  have  done.  I  am 
overwhelmed  with  gratitude,  and  I  shall  bless  you  for  it  to  the 
latest  day  of  my  life.  I  am  ready  to  pledge  myself  to  any 
thing  you  may  ask  on  this  subject." 

"  Then,"  said  Florence,  "  do  not  shrink  from  doing  what  is 
safe,  and  necessary,  and  right  for  you  to  do,  because  you  have 
once  said  you  would  not  do  it.  You  understand  me." 
"  Precisely,"  replied  Elliot :  "  and  you  shall  be  obeyed." 
It  was  not  more  than  a  week  before  the  news  was  circulated 
that  even  George  Elliot  had  signed  the  pledge  of  temperance. 
There  was  much  wondering  at  this  sudden  turn  among  those 
who  had  known  his  utter  repugnance  to  any  measure  of  the 
kind,  and  the  extent  to  which  he  had  yielded  to  temptation ; 
but  few  knew  how  fine  and  delicate  had  been  the  touch  to 
which  his  pride  had  yielded. 


ART  AND  NATURE 


"  Now,  girls,"  said  Mrs.  Ellis  Grey  to  her  daughters,  "  here 
is  a  letter  from  George  Somers,  and  he  is  to  be  down  here 
next  week  ;  so  I  give  you  fair  warning." 

"  Warning  ? "  said  Fanny  Grey,  looking  up  from  her  em- 
broidery ;  "  what  do  you  mean  by  that,  mamma  ?  " 

"  Now  that's  just  you,  Fanny,"  said  the  elder  sister,  laugh- 
ing. "  You  dear  little  simplicity,  you  can  never  understand 
any  thing  unless  it  is  stated  as  definitely  as  the  multiplication 
table." 

"  But  we  need  no  warning  in  the  case  of  Cousin  George, 
I'm  sure,"  said  Fanny. 

"  Cousin  George,  to  be  sure !  Do  you  hear  the  little  inno- 
cent ?  "  said  Isabella,  the  second  sister.  "  I  suppose,  Fanny, 
you  never  heard  that  he  had  been  visiting  all  the  courts  of 
Europe,  seeing  all  the  fine  women,  stone,  picture,  and  real, 
that  are  to  be  found.     Such  an  amateur  and  connoisseur  I  " 

"  Besides  having  received  a  fortune  of  a  million  or  so," 
said  Emma.  "  I  dare  say  now,  Fanny,  you  thought  he  was 
coming  home  to  make  dandelion  chains,  and  play  with  button 
balls,  as  he  used  to  do  when  he  was  a  little  boy." 

"  Fanny  will  never  take  the  world  as  it  is,"  said  Mrs.  Grey. 

(388) 


ART    AND    NATURE.  389 

"  I  do  believe  she  will  be  a  child  as  long  as  she  lives."  Mrs. 
Grey  said  this  as  if  she  were  sighing  over  some  radical  defect 
in  the  mind  of  her  daughter,  and  the  delicate  cheek  of  Fanny 
showed  a  tint  somewhat  deeper  as  she  spoke,  and  she  went  on 
with  her  embroidery  in  silence. 

Mrs.  Grey  had  been  left,  by  the  death  of  her  husband,  sole 
guardian  of  the  three  girls  whose  names  have  appeared  on 
the  page.  She  was  an  active,  busy,  ambitious  woman,  one  of 
the  sort  for  whom  nothing  is  ever  finished  enough,  or  perfect 
enough,  without  a  few  touches,  and  dashes,  and  emendations  ; 
and,  as  such  people  always  make  a  mighty  affair  of  education, 
Mrs.  Grey  had  made  it  a  life's  enterprise  to  order,  adjust,  and 
settle  the  character  of  her  daughters  ;  and  when  we  use  the 
word  character,  as  Mrs.  Grey  understood  it,  we  mean  it  to 
include  both  face,  figure,  dress,  accomplishments,  as  well  as 
those  more  unessential  items,  mind  and  heart. 

Mrs.  Grey  had  determined  that  her  daughters  should  be 
something  altogether  out  of  the  common  way  ;  and  accordingly 
she  had  conducted  the  training  of  the  two  eldest  with  such 
zeal  and  effect,  that  every  trace  of  an  original  character  was 
thoroughly  educated  out  of  them.  All  their  opinions,  feel- 
ings, words,  and  actions,  instead  of  gushing  naturally  from 
their  hearts,  were,  according  to  the  most  approved  authority, 
diligently  compared  and  revised.  Emma,  the  eldest,  was  an 
imposing,  showy  girl,  of  some  considerable  talent,  and  she  had 
been  assiduously  trained  to  make  a  sensation  as  a  woman  of 
ability  and  intellect.  Her  mind  had  been  filled  with  informa- 
tion on  all  sorts  of  subjects,  much  faster  than  she  had  power 
to  digest  or  employ  it ;  and  the  standard  which  her  am- 
bitious mother  had  set  for  her  being  rather  above  the  range  of 
her  abilities,  there  was  a  constant  sensation  of  effort  in  her 
33* 


390  ART    AND    NATURE. 

keeping  up  to  it.  In  hearing  her  talk  you  were  constantly 
reminded,  "I  am  a  woman  of  intellect  —  I  am  entirely  above 
the  ordinary  level  of  woman  ; "  and  on  all  subjects  she  was  so 
anxiously  and  laboriously,  well  and  circumstantially,  informed, 
that  it  was  enough  to  make  one's  head  ache  to  hear  her  talk. 

Isabella,  the  second  daughter,  was, par  excellence,  a  beauty  — 
a  tall,  sparkling,  Cleopatra-looking  girl,  whose  rich  color,  daz- 
zling eyes,  and  superb  figure  might  have  bid  defiance  to  art 
to  furnish  an  extra  charm  ;  nevertheless,  each  grace  had  been 
as  indefatigably  drilled  and  manoeuvred  as  the  members  of  an 
artillery  company.  Eyes,  lips,  eyelashes,  all  had  their  lesson ; 
and  every  motion  of  her  sculptured  limbs,  every  intonation 
of  her  silvery  voice,  had  been  studied,  considered,  and  cor- 
rected, till  even  her  fastidious  mother  could  discern  nothing 
that  was  wanting.  Then  were  added  all  the  graces  of  belles 
lettres  —  all  the  approved  rules  of  being  delighted  with  music, 
painting,  and  poetry  —  and  last  of  all  came  the  tour  of  the 
continent ;  travelling  being  generally  considered  a  sort  of 
pumice  stone,  for  rubbing  down  the  varnish,  and  giving  the 
very  last  touch  to  character. 

During  the  time  that  all  this  was  going  on,  Miss  Fanny, 
whom  we  now  declare  our  heroine,  had  been  growing  up  in 
the  quietude  of  her  mother's  country  seat,  and  growing,  as 
girls  are  apt  to,  much  faster  than  her  mother  imagined.  She 
was  a  fair,  slender  girl,  with  a  purity  and  simplicity  of  ap- 
pearance, which,  if  it  be  not  in  itself  beauty,  had  all  the  best 
effect  of  beauty,  in  interesting  and  engaging  the  heart. 

She  looked  not  so  much  beautiful  as  lovable.  Her  char- 
acter was  in  precise  correspondence  with  her  appearance  ;  its 
first  and  chief  element  was  feeling ;  and  to  this  add  fancy,  fer- 
vor, taste,  enthusiasm  almost  up  to  the  point  of  genius,  and  just 


ART    AND    NATURE.  391 

common  sense  enough  to  keep  them  all  in  order,  and  you  will 
have  a  very  good  idea  of  the  mind  of  Fanny  Grey. 

Delightfully  passed  the  days  with  Fanny  during  the  absence 
of  her  mother,  while,  without  thought  of  rule  or  compass,  she 
sang  her  own  songs,  painted  flowers,  and  sketched  landscapes 
from  nature,  visited  sociably  all  over  the  village,  where  she 
was  a  great  favorite,  ran  about  through  the  fields,  over  fences, 
or  in  the  woods  with  her  little  cottage  bonnet,  and,  above  all, 
built  her  own  little  castles  in  the  air  without  any  body  to  help 
pull  them  down,  which  we  think  about  the  happiest  circum- 
stance in  her  situation. 

But  affairs  wore  a  very  different  aspect  when  Mrs.  Grey 
with  her  daughters  returned  from  Europe,  as  full  of  foreign 
tastes  and  notions  as  people  of  an  artificial  character  generally 
do  return. 

Poor  Fanny  was  deluged  with  a  torrent  of  new  ideas  ;  she 
heard  of  styles  of  appearance  and  styles  of  beauty,  styles  of 
manner  and  styles  of  conversation,  this,  that,  and  the  other 
air,  a  general  effect  and  a  particular  effect,  and  of  four  hun- 
dred and  fifty  ways  of  producing  an  impression  —  in  short,  it 
seemed  to  her  that  people  ought  to  be  of  wonderful  conse- 
quence to  have  so  many  things  to  think  and  to  say  about  the 
how  and  why  of  every  word  and  action. 

Mrs.  Grey,  who  had  no  manner  of  doubt  of  her  own  ability  to 
make  over  a  character,  undertook  the  point  with  Fanny  as  sys- 
tematically as  one  would  undertake  to  make  over  an  old  dress. 
Poor  Fanny,  who  had  an  unconquerable  aversion  to  trying  on 
dresses  or  settling  points  in  millinery,  went  through  with  most 
exemplary  meekness  an  entire  transformation  as  to  all  exter- 
nals ;  but  when  Mrs.  Grey  set  herself  at  work  upon  her  mind, 
and  tastes,  and  opinions,  the  matter  became  somewhat  more 


302  ART    AND    NATURE. 

serious ;  for  the  buoyant  feeling  and  fanciful  elements  of  her 
character  were  as  incapable  of  being  arranged  according  to 
rule  as  the  sparkling  water  drops  are  of  being  strung  into 
necklaces  and  earrings,  or  the  gay  clouds  of  being  made  into 
artificial  flowers.  Some  warm  natural  desire  or  taste  of  her 
own  was  forever  interfering  with  her  mother's  regime  ;  some 
obstinate  little  "  Fannyism  "  would  always  put  up  its  head  in 
defiance  of  received  custom  ;  and,  as  her  mother  and  sisters 
pathetically  remarked,  do  what  you  would  with  her,  she  woufd 
always  come  out  herself  after  all. 

After  trying  laboriously  to  conform  to  the  pattern  which 
was  daily  set  before  her,  she  came  at  last  to  the  conclusion 
that  some  natural  inferiority  must  forever  prevent  her  aspiring 
to  accomplish  any  thing  in  that  way. 

"  If  I  can't  be  what  my  mother  wishes,  I'll  at  least  be  my- 
self/' said  she  one  day  to  her  sisters,  "  for  if  I  try  to  alter  I 
shall  neither  be  myself  nor  any  body  else  ; "  and  on  the  whole 
her  mother  and  sisters  came  to  the  same  conclusion.  And 
in  truth  they  found  it  a  very  convenient  thing  to  have  one 
in  the  family  who  was  not  studying  effect  or  aspiring  to  be  any 
thing  in  particular. 

It  was  very  agreeable  to  Mrs.  Grey  to  have  a  daughter  to 
sit  with  her  when  she  had  the  sick  headache,  while  the  other 
girls  were  entertaining  company  in  the  drawing  room  below. 
It  was  very  convenient  to  her  sisters  to  have  some  one  whose 
dress  took  so  little  time  that  she  had  always  a  head  and  a  pair 
of  hands  at  their  disposal,  in  case  of  any  toilet  emergency. 
Then  she  was  always  loving  and  affectionate,  entirely  willing 
to  be  outtalked  and  outshone  on  every  occasion ;  and  that  was 
another  advantage. 

As  to  Isabella  and  Emma,  the  sensation  that  they  made  in 


ART    AND    NATURE.  393 

society  was  enough  to  have  gratified  a  dozen  ordinary  belles. 
All  that  they  said,  and  did,  and  wore,  was  instant  and  unques- 
tionable precedent ;  and  young  gentlemen,  all  starch  and  per- 
fume, twirled  their  laced  pocket  handkerchiefs,  and  declared 
on  their  honor  that  they  knew  not  which  was  the  most  over- 
coming, the  genius  and  wit  of  Miss  Emma,  or  the  bright  eyes 
of  Miss  Isabella ;  though  it  was  an  agreed  point  that  between 
them  both,  not  a  heart  in  the  gay  world  remained  in  its  owner's 
possession  —  a  thing  which  might  have  a  serious  sound  to  one 
who  did  not  know  the  character  of  these  articles,  often  the 
most  trifling  item  in  the  inventory  of  worldly  possessions. 
And  all  this  while,  all  that  was  said  of  our  heroine  was  some- 
thing in  this  way:  "I  believe  there  is  another  sister — is 
there  not  ?  " 

"  Yes,  there  is  a  quiet  little  blue-eyed  lady,  who  never  has 
a  word  to  say  for  herself — quite  amiable  I'm  told." 

Now,  it  was  not  a  fact  that  Miss  Fanny  never  had  a  word 
to  say  for  herself.  If  people  had  seen  her  on  a  visit  at  any 
one  of  the  houses  along  the  little  green  street  of  her  native 
village,  they  might  have  learned  that  her  tongue  could  go  fast 
enough. 

But  in  lighted  drawing  rooms,  and  among  buzzing  voices, 
and  surrounded  by  people  who  were  always  saying  things 
because  such  things  were  proper  to  be  said,  Fanny  was 
always  dizzy,  and  puzzled,  and  unready ;  and  for  fear  that  she 
would  say  something  that  she  should  not,  she  concluded  to  say 
nothing  at  all ;  nevertheless,  she  made  good  use  of  her  eyes, 
and  found  a  very  quiet  amusement  in  looking  on  to  see  how 
other  people  conducted  matters. 


394  ART    AND    NATURE. 

Well,  Mr.  George  Sc-mers  is  actually  arrived  at  Mrs.  Grey's 
country  seat,  and  there  he  sits  with  Miss  Isabella  in  the  deep 
recess  of  that  window,  where  the  white  roses  are  peeping  in 
so  modestly. 

"  To  be  sure,"  thought  Fanny  to  herself,  as  she  quietly  sur- 
veyed him  looming  up  through  the  shade  of  a  pair  of  magnifi- 
cent whiskers,  and  heard  him  passing  the  shuttlecock  of  com- 
pliment back  and  forth  with  the  most  assured  and  practised  air 
in  the  world,  —  "  to  be  sure,  I  was  a  child  in  imagining  that  I 
should  see  Cousin  George  Somers.  I'm  sure  this  magnificent 
young  gentleman,  full  of  all  utterance  and  knowledge,  is  not 
the  cousin  that  I  used  to  feel  so  easy  with  ;  no,  indeed  ;  "  and 
Fanny  gave  a  half  sigh,  and  then  went  out  into  the  garden 
to  water  her  geraniums. 

For  some  days  Mr.  Somers  seemed  to  feel  put  upon  his 
reputation  to  sustain  the  character  of  gallant,  savant,  connois- 
seur, &c,  which  every  one  who  makes  the  tour  of  the  conti- 
nent is  expected  to  bring  home  as  a  matter  of  course ;  for 
there  is  seldom  a  young  gentleman  who  knows  he  has  qualifi- 
cations in  this  line,  who  can  resist  the  temptation  of  showing 
what  he  can  do.  Accordingly  he  discussed  tragedies,  and  re- 
views, and  ancient  and  modern  customs  with  Miss  Emma ; 
and  with  Miss  Isabella  retouched  her  drawings  and  exhibited 
his  own  ;  sported  the  most  choice  and  recherche  style  of  com- 
pliment at  every  turn,  and,  in  short,  flattered  himself,  perhaps 
justly,  that  he  was  playing  the  irresistible  in  a  manner  quite 
equal  to  that  of  his  fair  cousins. 

Now,  all  this  while  Miss  Fanny  was  mistaken  in  one  point, 
for  Mr.  George  Somers,  though  an  exceedingly  fine  gentle- 
man, had,  after  all,  quite  a  substratum  of  reality  about  him, 
of  real  heart,  real  feeling,  and  real  opinion  of  his  own  ;  and 


ART    AND    NATURE. 


395 


the  consequence  was,  that  when  tired  of  the  effort  of  convers- 
ing he  really  longed  to  find  somebody  to  talk  to ;  and  in  this 
mood  he  one  evening  strolled  into  the  library,  leaving  the  gay 
party  in  the  drawing  room  to  themselves.  Miss  Fanny  was 
there,  quite  intent  upon  a  book  of  selections  from  the  old 
English  poets. 

"  Really,  Miss  Fanny,"  said  Mr.  Somers,  "  you  are  very 
sparing  of  the  favor  of  your  company  to  us  this  evening." 

"  O,  I  presume  my  company  is  not  much  missed,"  said 
Fanny,  with  a  smile. 

"  You  must  have  a  poor  opinion  of  our  taste,  then,"  said  Mr. 
Somers. 

"  Come,  come,  Mr.  Somers,"  replied  Fanny,  "  you  forget 
the  person  you  are  talking  to ;  it  is  not  at  all  necessary  for 
you  to  compliment  me  ;  nobody  ever  does  —  so  you  may  feel 
relieved  of  that  trouble." 

"  Nobody  ever  does,  Miss  Fanny  ;  pray,  how  is  that  ?  " 

"  Because  I'm  not  the  sort  of  person  to  say  such  things  to." 

"  And  pray,  what  sort  of  person  ought  one  to  be,  in  order 
to  have  such  things  said  ?  "  replied  Mr.  Somers. 

"  Why,  like  Sister  Isabella,  or  like  Emma.  You  understand 
I  am  a  sort  of  little  nobody  ;  if  any  one  wastes  fine  words 
on  me,  I  never  know  what  to  make  of  them." 

"  And  pray,  what  must  one  say  to  you  ?  "  said  Mr.  Somers, 
quite  amused. 

"  Why,  what  they  really  think  and  really  feel ;  and  I  am 
always  puzzled  by  any  thing  else." 

Accordingly,  about  a  half  an  hour  afterwards,  you  might 
have  seen  the  much  admired  Mr.  Somers  once  more  trans- 
formed into  the  Cousin  George,  and  he  and  Fanny  engaged  in 
a  very  interesting  tete-a-tete  about  old  times  and  things. 


396  ART    AND    NATURE. 

Now,  you  may  skip  across  a  fortnight  from  this  evening, 
and  then  look  in  at  the  same  old  library,  just  as  the  setting  sun 
is  looking  in  at  its  western  window,  and  you  will  see  Fanny 
sitting  back  a  little  in  the  shadow,  with  one  straggling  ray  of 
light  illuminating  her  pure  childish  face,  and  she  is  looking  up 
at  Mr.  George  Somers,  as  if  in  some  sudden  perplexity ;  and, 
dear  me,  if  we  are  not  mistaken,  our  young  gentleman  is 
blushing. 

"  Why,  Cousin  George,"  says  the  lady,  "  what  do  you 
mean  ?  " 

"  I  thought  I  spoke  plainly  enough,  Fanny,"  replied  Cousin 
George,  in  a  tone  that  might  have  made  the  matter  plain 
enough,  to  be  sure. 

Fanny  laughed  outright,  and  the  gentleman  looked  terribly 
serious. 

"  Indeed,  now,  don't  be  angry,"  said  she,  as  he  turned  away 
with  a  vexed  and  mortified  air ;  "  indeed,  now,  I  can't  help 
laughing,  it  seems  to  me  so  odd  ;  what  will  they  all  think  of 
you  ?  " 

"  It's  of  no  consequence  to  me  what  they  think,"  said  Mr. 
Somers.  "  I  think,  Fanny,  if  you  had  the  heart  I  gave  you 
credit  for,  you  might  have  seen  my  feelings  before  now." 

"  Now,  do  sit  down,  my  dear  cousin,"  said  Fanny,  earnest!)', 
drawing  him  into  a  chair,  "  and  tell  me,  how  could  I,  poor  little 
Miss  Fanny  Nobody,  how  could  I  have  thought  any  such 
thing  with  such  sisters  as  I  have  ?  I  did  think  that  you  liked 
me,  that  you  knew  more  of  my  real  feelings  than  mamma  and 
sisters  ;  but  that  you  should  —  that  you  ever  should  —  why, 
I  am  astonished  that  you  did  not  fall  in  love  with  Isabella." 

"  That  would  have  met  your  feelings,  then  ?  "  said  George, 
eagerly,  and  looking  as  if  he  would  have  looked  through  her, 
eyes,  soul,  and  all. 


ART    AND    NATURE.  397 

"  No,  no,  indeed,"  she  said,  turning  away  her  head  ;  "  but," 
added  she,  quickly,  "  you'll  lose  all  your  credit  for  good  taste. 
Now,  tell  me,  seriously,  what  do  you  like  me  for  ?  " 

"  Well,  then,  Fanny,  I  can  give  you  ,the  best  reason.  I 
like  you  for  being  a  real,  sincere,  natural  girl  —  for  being  sim- 
ple in  your  tastes,  and  simple  in  your  appearance,  and  simple 
in  your  manners,  and  for  having  heart  enough  left,  as  I  hope, 
to  love  plain  George  Somers,  with  all  his  faults,  and  not  Mr. 
Somers's  reputation,  or  Mr.  Somers's  establishment." 

"  Well,  this  is  all  very  reasonable  to  me,  of  course,"  said 
Fanny,  "  but  it  will  be  so  much  Greek  to  poor  mamma." 

"  I  dare  say  your  mother  could  never  understand  how  see- 
ing the  very  acme  of  cultivation  in  all  countries  should  have 
really  made  my  eyes  ache,  and  long  for  something  as  simple 
as  green  grass  or  pure  water,  to  rest  them  on.  I  came  down 
here  to  find  it  among  my  cousins,  and  I  found  in  your  sisters 
only  just  such  women  as  I  have  seen  and  admired  all  over 
Europe,  till  I  was  tired  of  admiring.  Your  mother  has 
achieved  what  she  aimed  at,  perfectly  ;  I  know  of  no  circle 
that  could  produce  higher  specimens ;  but  it  is  all  art,  trium- 
phant art,  after  all,  and  I  have  so  strong  a  current  of  natural 
feeling  running  through  my  heart  that  I  could  never  be  happy 
except  with  a  fresh,  simple,  impulsive  character." 

"  Like  me,  you  are  going  to  say,"  said  Fanny,  laughing. 
"  Well,  III  admit  that  you  are  right.     It  would  be  a  pity  that 
you  should  not  have  one  vote,  at  least." 
34 


CHILDREN 


"  A  little  child  shall  lead  them." 

One  cold  market  morning  I  looked  into  a  milliner's  shop, 
and  there  I  saw  a  hale,  hearty,  well-browned  young  fellow 
from  the  country,  with  his  long  cart  whip,  and  lion-shag  coat, 
holding  up  some  little  matter,  and  turning  it  about  on  his  great 
list.  And  what  do  you  suppose  it  was  ?  A  baby's  bonnet  I 
A  little,  soft,  blue  satin  hood,  with  a  swan's  down  border, 
white  as  the  new-fallen  snow,  with  a  frill  of  rich  blonde  around 
the  edge. 

By  his  side  stood  a  very  pretty  woman,  holding,  with  no 
small  pride,  the  baby  —  for  evidently  it  was  the  baby.  Any 
one  could  read  that  fact  in  every  glance,  as  they  looked  at 
each  other,  and  then  at  the  large,  unconscious  eyes,  and  fat, 
dimpled  cheeks  of  the  little  one. 

It  was  evident  that  neither  of  them  had  ever  seen  a  baby 
like  that  before. 

"  But  really,  Mary,"  said  the  young  man,  "  isn't  three  dol- 
lars very  high  ?  " 

Mary  very  prudently  said  nothing,  but  taking  the  little  bon- 
net, tied  it  on  the  little  head,  and  held  up  the  baby.     The 

(398) 


CHILDREN. 


399 


man  looked,  and  without  another  word  down  went  the  three 
dollar  —  all  the  avails  of  last  week's  butter ;  and  as  they 
walked  out  of  the  shop,  it  is  hard  to  say  which  looked  the 
most  delighted  with  the  bargain. 

"  Ah,"  thought  I,  "  a  little  child  shall  lead  them." 

Another  day,  as  I  was  passing  a  carriage  factory  along  one 
of  our  principal  back  streets,  I  saw  a  young  mechanic  at  work 
on  a  wheel.  The  rough  body  of  a  carriage  stood  beside  him, 
and  there,  wrapped  up  snugly,  all  hooded  and  cloaked,  sat  a 
little  dark-eyed  girl,  about  a  year  old,  playing  with  a  great, 
shaggy  dog.  As  I  stopped,  the  man  looked  up  from  his  work, 
and  turned  admiringly  towards  his  little  companion,  as  much 
as  to  say,  "  See  what  I  have  got  here ! " 

"  Yes,"  thought  I ;  "  and  if  the  little  lady  ever  gets  a  glance 
from  admiring  swains  as  sincere  as  that,  she  will  be  lucky." 

Ah,  these  children,  little  witches,  pretty  even  in  all  their 
faults  and  absurdities.  See,  for  example,  yonder  little  fellow 
in  a  naughty  fit.  He  has  shaken  his  long  curls  over  his  deep- 
blue  eyes  ;  the  fair  brow  is  bent  in  a  frown  the  rose  leaf 
lip  is  pursed  up  in  infinite  defiance,  and  the  white  shoulder 
thrust  angrily  forward.  Can  any  but  a  child  look  so  pretty, 
even  in  its  naughtiness  ? 

Then  comes  the  instant  change  ;  flashing  smiles  and  tears, 
as  the  good  comes  back  all  in  a  rush,  and  you  are  over- 
whelmed with  protestations,  promises,  and  kisses  !  They  are 
irresistible,  too,  these  little  ones.  They  pull  away  the  scholar's 
pen,  tumble  about  his  paper,  make  somersets  over  his  books  ; 
and  what  can  he  do  ?  They  tear  up  newspapers,  litter  the 
carpets,  break,  pull,  and  upset,  and  then  jabber  unheard-of 
English  h:  self-defence ;  and  what  can  you  do  for  yourself? 

"  If  I  had  a  child,"  says  the  precise  man,  "  you  should  see." 


400  CHILDREN. 

He  does  have  a  child,  and  his  child  tears  up  his  papers, 
tumbles  over  his  things,  and  pulls  Ins  nose,  like  all  other  chil- 
dren;  and  what  has  the  precise  man  to  say  for  himself? 
Nothing ;  he  is  like  every  body  else  ;  "  a  little  child  shall  lead 
him." 

The  hardened  heart  of  the  worldly  man  is  unlocked  by  the 
guileless  tones  and  simple  caresses  of  his  son ;  but  he  repays 
it  in  time,  by  imparting  to  his  boy  all  the  crooked  tricks  and 
callous  maxims  which  have  undone  himself. 

Go  to  the  jail,  to  the  penitentiary,  and  find  there  the 
wretch  most  sullen,  brutal,  and  hardened.  Then  look  at  your 
infant  son.  Such  as  he  is  to  you,  such  to  some  mother  was 
this  man.  That  hard  hand  was  soft  and  delicate ;  that  rough 
voice  was  tender  and  lisping ;  fond  eyes  followed  him  as  he 
played,  and  he  was  rocked  and  cradled  as  something  holy. 
There  was  a  time  when  his  heart,  soft  and  unworn,  might  have 
opened  to  questionings  of  God  and  Jesus,  and  been  sealed 
with  the  seal  of  Heaven.  But  harsh  hands  seized  it ;  fierce 
goblin  lineaments  were  impressed  upon  it;  and  all  is  over 
with  him  forever ! 

So  of  the  tender,  weeping  child  is  made  the  callous,  heart- 
less man  ;  of  the  all-believing  child,  the  sneering  sceptic ;  of 
the  beautiful  and  modest,  the  shameless  and  abandoned ;  and 
this  is  what  the  world  does  for  the  little  one. 

There  was  a  time  when  the  divine  One  stood  on  earth,  and 
little  children  sought  to  draw  near  to  him.  But  harsh  human 
beings  stood  between  him  and  them,  forbidding  their  approach. 
Ah,  has  it  not  always  been  so?  Do  not  even  we,  with  our 
hard  and  unsubdued  feelings,  our  worldly  and  unspiritual 
habits  and  maxims,  stand  like  a  dark  screen  between  our 
little  child  and  its   Savior,  and  keep  even  from  the  choice 


CHILDREN.  401 

bud  of  our  hearts  the  sweet  radiance  which  might  unfold 
it  for  Paradise  ?  "  Suffer  little  children  to  come  unto  me,  and 
forbid  them  not,"  is  still  the  voice  of  the  Son  of  God ;  but  the 
cold  world  still  closes  around  and  forbids.  When,  of  old,  dis- 
ciples would  question  their  Lord  of  the  higher  mysteries  of 
his  kingdom,  he  took  a  little  child  and  set  him  in  the  midst,  as 
a  sign  of  him  who  should  be  greatest  in  heaven.  That  gentle 
teacher  remains  still  to  us.  By  every  hearth  and  fireside  Je- 
sus still  sets  the  little  child  in  the  midst  of  us. 

Wouldst  thou  know,  O  parent,  what  is  that  faith  which  un- 
locks heaven  ?  Go  not  to  wrangling  polemics,  or  creeds  and 
forms  of  theology,  but  draw  to  thy  bosom  thy  little  one,  and 
read  in  that  clear,  trusting  eye  the  lesson  of  eternal  life.  Be 
only  to  thy  God  as  thy  child  is  to  thee,  and  all  is  done.  Bless- 
ed shalt  thou  be,  indeed,  "  when  a  little  child  shall  lead  thee" 
3d* 


HOW  TO  MAKE  FRIENDS  WITH 
MAMMON. 


It  was  four  o'clock  in  the  afternoon  of  a  dull  winter  day 
that  Mr.  H.  sat  in  his  counting  room.  The  sun  had  nearly 
gone  down,  and,  in  fact,  it  was  already  twilight  beneath  the 
shadows  of  the  tall,  dusky  stores,  and  the  close,  crooked 
streets  of  that  quarter  of  Boston.  Hardly  light  enough 
struggled  through  the  dusky  panes  of  the  counting  house  for 
him  to  read  the  entries  in  a  much-thumbed  memorandum 
book,  which  he  held  in  his  hand. 

A  small,  thin  boy,  with  a  pale  face  and  anxious  expression, 
significant  of  delicacy  of  constitution,  and  a  too  early  acquaint- 
ance with  want  and  sorrow,  was  standing  by  him,  earnestly 
watching  his  motions. 

"  Ah,  yes,  my  boy,"  said  Mr.  H.,  as  he  at  last  shut  up  the 
memorandum  book.  "  Yes,  I've  got  the  place  now  ;  I'm  apt 
to  be  forgetful  about  these  things  ;  come,  now,  let's  go.  How 
is  it  ?     Haven't  you  brought  the  basket  ?  " 

"  No,  sir,"  said  the  boy,  timidly.  "  The  grocer  said  he'd 
let  mother  have  a  quarter  for  it,  and  she  thought  she'd  sell  it." 

"  That's  bad,"  said  Mr.  H.,  as  he  went  on,  tying  his  throat 
with  a  long  comforter  of  some  yards  in  extent ;  and  as  he 

(402) 


HOW    TO    MAKE    FRIENDS    WITH    MAMMON.  403 

continued  this  operation  he  abstractedly  repeated,  "  That's  bad, 
that's  bad,"  till  the  poor  little  boy  looked  quite  dismayed,  and 
began  to  think  that  somehow  his  mother  had  been  dreadfully 
out  of  the  way. 

"  She  didn't  want  to  send  for  help  so  long  as  she  had  any 
thing  she  could  sell,"  said  the  little  boy  in  a  deprecating 
tone. 

"  O,  yes,  quite  right,"  said  Mr.  H.,  taking  from  a  pigeon 
hole  in  the  desk  a  large  pocket  book,  and  beginning  to  turn  it 
over  ;  and,  as  before,  abstractedly  repeating,  "  Quite  right, 
quite  right  ?  "  till  the  little  boy  became  reassured,  and  began 
to  think,  although  he  didn't  know  why,  that  his  mother  had 
done  something  quite  meritorious. 

"  Well,"  said  Mr.  H.,  after  he  had  taken  several  bills  from 
the  pocket  book  and  transferred  them  to  a  wallet  which  he 
put  into  his  pocket,  "  now  we're  ready,  my  boy."  But  first 
he  stopped  to  lock  up  his  desk,  and  then  he  said,  abstractedly 
to  himself,  "  I  wonder  if  I  hadn't  better  take  a  few  tracts." 

Now,  it  is  to  be  confessed  that  this  Mr.  H.,  whom  we  have 
introduced  to  our  reader,  was,  in  his  way,  quite  an  oddity.  He 
had  a  number  of  singular  little  penchants  and  peculiarities 
quite  his  own,  such  as  a  passion  for  poking  about  among  dark 
alleys,  at  all  sorts  of  seasonable  and  unseasonable  hours  ;  fishing 
out  troops  of  dirty,  neglected  children,  and  fussing  about  gen- 
erally in  the  community  till  he  could  get  them  into  schools  or 
otherwise  provided  for.  He  always  had  in  his  pocket  book  a 
note  of  some  dozen  poor  widows  who  wanted  tea,  sugar, 
candles,  or  other  things  such  as  poor  widows  always  will  be 
wanting.  And  then  he  had  a  most  extraordinary  talent  for 
finding  out  all  the  sick  strangers  that  lay  in  out-of-the-way 
upper  rooms  in  hotels,  who,  every  body  knows,  have  no  busi- 


404  HOW    TO    MAKE    FRIENDS    WITH    MAMMON. 

ness  to  get  sick  in  such  places,  unless  they  have  money  enough 
to  pay  their  expenses,  which  they  never  do. 

Besides  this,  all  Mr.  H.'s  kinsmen  and  cousins,  to  the  third, 
fourth,  and  fortieth  remove,  were  always  writing  him  letters, 
which,  among  other  pleasing  items,  generally  contained  the 
intelligence  that  a  few  hundred  dollars  were  just  then  exceed- 
ingly necessary  to  save  them  from  utter  ruin,  and  they  knew 
of  nobody  else  to  whom  to  look  for  it. 

And  then  Mr.  H.  was  up  to  his  throat  in  subscriptions  to 
every  charitable  society  that  ever  was  made  or  imagined ;  had 
a  hand  in  building  all  the  churches  within  a  hundred  miles  ; 
occasionally  gave  four  or  five  thousand  dollars  to  a  college  ; 
offered  to  be  one  of  six  to  raise  ten  thousand  dollars  for  some 
benevolent  purpose,  and  when  four  of  the  six  backed  out,  qui- 
etly paid  the  balance  himself,  and  said  no  more  about  it.  An- 
other of  his  innocent  fancies  was  to  keep  always  about  him 
any  quantity  of  tracts  and  good  books,  little  and  big,  for  chil- 
dren and  grown-up  people,  which  he  generally  diffused  in  a 
kind  of  gentle  shower  about  him  wherever  he  moved. 

So  great  was  his  monomania  for  benevolence  that  it  could 
not  at  all  confine  itself  to  the  streets  of  Boston,  the  circle  of 
his  relatives,  or  even  the  United  States  of  America.  Mr. 
EL  was  fully  posted  up  in  the  affairs  of  India,  Burmah,  China, 
and  all  those  odd,  out-of  the-way  places,  which  no  sensible  man 
ever  thinks  of  with  any  interest,  unless  he  can  make  some  money 
there ;  and  money,  it  is  to  be  confessed,  Mr.  H.  didn't  make 
there,  though  he  spent  an  abundance.  For  getting  up  printing 
presses  in  Ceylon  for  Chinese  type,  for  boxes  of  clothing  and 
what  not  to  be  sent  to  the  Sandwich  Islands,  for  school  books 
for  the  Greeks,  and  all  other  nonsense  of  that  sort,  Mr.  H. 
was  without  a  parallel.     No  wonder  his  rich  brother  merchants 


HOW    TO    MAKE    FRIENDS    WITH    MAMMON.  405 

sometimes  thought  him  something  of  a  bore,  since,  his  heart 
being  full  of  all  these  matters,  he  was  rather  apt  to  talk  about 
them,  and  sometimes  to  endeavor  to  draw  them  into  fellowship, 
to  an  extent  that  was  not  to  be  thought  of. 

So  it  came  to  pass  often,  that  though  Mr.  H.  was  a  thriv- 
ing business  man,  with  some  ten  thousand  a  year,  he  often 
wore  a  pretty  threadbare  coat,  the  seams  whereof  would  be 
trimmed  with  lines  of  white  ;  and  he  would  sometimes  need 
several  pretty  plain  hints  on  the  subject  of  a  new  hat  before 
he  would  think  he  could  afford  one.  Now,  it  is  to  be  confessed 
the  world  is  not  always  grateful  to  those  who  thus  devote 
themselves  to  its  interests  ;  and  Mr.  H.  had  as  much  occasion 
to  know  this  as  any  other  man.  People  got  so  used  to  his 
giving,  that  his  bounty  became  as  common  and  as  necessary 
as  that  of  a  higher  Benefactor,  "  who  maketh  his  sun  to  rise 
upon  the  evil  and  the  good,  and  sendeth  rain  upon  the  just 
and  the  unjust ;  "  and  so  it  came  to  pass  that  people  took 
them,  as  they  do  the  sunshine  and  the  rain,  quite  as  matters  of 
course,  not  thinking  much  about  them  when  they  came,  but 
particularly  apt  to  scold  when  they  did  not  come. 

But  Mr.  H.  never  cared  for  that.  He  did  not  give  for  grat- 
itude ;  he  did  not  give  for  thanks,  nor  to  have  his  name  pub- 
lished in  the  papers  as  one  of  six  who  had  given  fifty  thousand  to 
do  so  and  so ;  but  he  gave  because  it  was  in  him  to  give,  and 
we  all  know  that  it  is  an  old  rule  in  medicine,  as  well  as  mor- 
als, that  what  is  in  a  man  must  be  brought  out.  Then,  again, 
he  had  heard  it  reported  that  there  had  been  One  of  distin- 
guished authority  who  had  expressed  the  opinion  that  it  was 
u  more  blessed  to  give  than  to  receive"  and  he  very  much  be- 
lieved it  —  believed  it  because  the  One  who  said  it  must  have 
known,  since  for  man's  sake  he  once  gave  away  all. 


406  HOW    TO    MAKE    FRIENDS    WITH    MAMMON. 

And  so,  when  some  thriftless,  distant  relation,  whose  debts 
he  had  paid  a  dozen  times  over,  gave  him  an  overhauling  on 
the  subject  of  liberality,  and  seemed  inclined  to  take  him  by 
the  throat  for  further  charity,  he  calmed  himself  down  by  a 
chapter  or  two  from  the  New  Testament  and  half  a  dozen 
hymns,  and  then  sent  him  a  good,  brotherly  letter  of  admoni- 
tion and  counsel,  with  a  bank  note  to  enforce  it ;  and  when 
some  querulous  old  woman,  who  had  had  a  tenement  of  him 
rent  free  for  three  or  four,  years,  sent  him  word  that  if  he 
didn't  send  and  mend  the  water  pipes  she  would  move  right 
out,  he  sent  and  mended  them.  People  said  that  he  was 
foolish,  and  that  it  didn't  do  any  good  to  do  for  ungrateful 
people  ;  but  Mr.  H.  knew  that  it  did  him  good.  He  loved  to 
do  it,  and  he  thought  also  on  some  words  that  ran  to  this 
effect :  "  Do  good  and  lend,  hoping  for  nothing  again."  He 
literally  hoped  for  nothing  again  in  the  way  of  reward,  either 
in  this  world  or  in  heaven,  beyond  the  present  pleasure  of  the 
deed ;  for  he  had  abundant  occasion  to  see  how  favors  are  for- 
gotten in  this  world ;  and  as  for  another,  he  had  in  his  own 
soul  a  standard  of  benevolence  so  high,  so  pure,  so  ethereal, 
that  but  One  of  mortal  birth  ever  reached  it.  He  felt  that,  do 
what  he  might,  he  fell  ever  so  far  below  the  life  of  that  spot- 
less One  —  that  his  crown  in  heaven  must  come  to  him  at  last, 
not  as  a  reward,  but  as  a  free,  eternal  gift. 

But  all  this  while  our  friend  and  his  little  companion  have 
been  pattering  along  the  wet  streets,  in  the  rain  and  sleet  of  a 
bitter  cold  evening,  till  they  stopped  before  a  grocery.  Here 
a  large  cross-handled  basket  was  first  bought,  and  then  filled 
with  sundry  packages  of  tea,  sugar,  candles,  soap,  starch,  and 
various  other  matters  ;  a  barrel  of  flour  was  ordered  to  be 
sent  after  him  on  a  dray.     Mr.  H.  next  stopped  at  a  dry  goods 


HOW    TO    MAKE    FRIENDS    WITH    MAMMON.  407 

store  and  bought  a  pair  of  blankets,  with  which  he  loaded 
down  the  boy,  who  was  happy  enough  to  be  so  loaded ;  and 
then,  turning  gradually  from  the  more  frequented  streets,  the 
two  were  soon  lost  to  view  in  one  of  the  dimmest  alleys  of 
the  city. 

The  cheerful  fire  was  blazing  in  his  parlor,  as,  returned 
from  his  long,  wet  walk,  he  was  sitting  by  it  with  his  feet  com- 
fortably incased  in  slippers.  The  astral  was  burning  brightly 
on  the  centre  table,  and  a  group  of  children  were  around  it, 
studying  their  lesson's. 

"  Papa,"  said  a  little  boy,  "  what  does  this  verse  mean  ?  It's 
in  my  Sunday  school  lesson.  'Make  to  yourselves  friends 
of  the  mammon  of  unrighteousness,  that  when  ye  fail,  they 
may  receive  you  into  everlasting  hahitations' " 

"  You  ought  to  have  asked  your  teacher,  my  son." 

"  But  he  said  he  didn't  know  exactly  what  it  meant.  He 
wanted  me  to  look  this  week  and  see  if  I  could  find  out." 

Mr.  II.'s  standing  resource  in  all  exegetical  difficulties  was 
Dr.  Scott's  Family  Bible.  Therefore  he  now  got  up,  and 
putting  on  his  spectacles,  walked  to  the  glass  bookcase,  and 
took  down  a  volume  of  that  worthy  commentator,  and  opening 
it,  read  aloud  the  whole  exposition  of  the  passage,  together 
with  the  practical  reflections  upon  it ;  and  by  the  time  he  had 
done,  he  found  his  young  auditor  fast  asleep  in  his  chair. 

"  Mother,"  said  he,  "  this  child  plays  too  hard.  He  can't 
keep  his  eyes  open  evenings.     It's  time  he  was  in  bed." 

"  I  wasn't  asleep,  pa,"  said  Master  Henry,  starting  up  with 
that  air  of  injured  innocence  with  which  gentlemen  of  his  age 
generally  treat  an  imputation  of  this  kind. 

u  Then  can  you  tell  me  now  what  the  passage  means  that  I 
have  been  reading  to  you  ?  " 


408  HOW    TO    MAKE    FRIENDS    WITH    MAMMON. 

"  There's  so  much  of  it,"  said  Henry,  hopelessly,  "  I  wish 
you'd  just  tell  me  in  short  order,  father." 

"  O,  read  it  for  yourself,"  said  Mr.  H.,  as  he  pushed  the 
book  towards  the  boy,  for  it  was  to  be  confessed  that  he  per- 
ceived at  this  moment  that  he  had  not  himself  received  any 
particularly  luminous  impression,  though  of  course  he  thought 
it  was  owing  to  his  own  want  of  comprehension. 

Mr.  H.  leaned  back  in  his  rocking  chair,  and  on  his  own 
private  account  began  to  speculate  a  little  as  to  what  he  really 
should  -think  the  verse  might  mean,  supposing  he  were  at  all 
competent  to  decide  upon  it.  "  '  Make  to  yourselves  friends  of 
the  mammon  of  unrighteousness,' "  says  he :  "  that's  money, 
very  clearly.  How  am  I  to  make  friends  with  it  or  of  it  ? 
Receive  me  into  everlasting  habitations :  that's  a  singular 
kind  of  expression.,  I  wronder  what  it  means.  Dr.  Scott 
makes  some  very  good  remarks  about  it  —  but  somehow  I'm 
not  exactly  clear."  It  must  be  remarked  that  this  was  not 
an  uncommon  result  of  Mr.  PL's  critical  investigations  in  this 
quarter. 

Well,  thoughts  will  wrander ;  and  as  he  lay  with  his  head  on 
the  back  of  his  rocking  chair,  and  his  eyes  fixed  on  the  flick- 
ering blaze  of  the  coal,  visions  of  his  wet  tramp  in  the  city, 
and  of  the  lonely  garret  he  had  been  visiting,  and  of  the  poor 
woman  with  the  pale,  discouraged  face,  to  whom  he  had  car- 
ried warmth  and  comfort,  all  blended  themselves  together. 
He  felt,  too,  a  little  indefinite  creeping  chill,  and  some  uneasy 
sensations  in  his  head  like  a  commencing  cold,  for  he  was 
not  a  strong  man,  and  it  is  probable  his  long,  wet  Avalk  was 
likely  to  cause  him  some  inconvenience  in  this  wray.  At  last 
he  was  fast  asleep,  nodding  in  his  chair. 

He  dreamed  that  he  was  very  sick  in  bed,  that  the  doctor 


HOW    TO    MAKE    FRIENDS    WITH    MAMMON.  409 

came  and  went,  and  that  he  grew  sicker  and  sicker.  He 
was  going  to  die.  He  saw  his  wife  sitting  weeping  by  his 
pillow  —  his  children  standing  by  with  pale  and  frightened 
faces ;  all  things  in  his  room  began  to  swim,  and  waver,  and 
fade,  and  voices  that  called  his  name,  and  sobs  and  lamenta- 
tions that  rose  around  him,  seemed  far  on°  and  distant  in  his 
ear.  "  0  eternity,  eternity  !  I  am  going  —  I  am  going,"  he 
thought ;  and  in  that  hour,  strange  to  tell,  not  one  of  all  his 
good  deeds  seemed  good  enough  to  lean  on  —  all  bore  some 
taint  or  tinge,  to  his  purified  eye,  of  mortal  selfishness,  and 
seemed  unholy  before  the  All  Pure.  "  I  am  going,"  he 
thought ;  "  there  is  no  time  to  stay,  no  time  to  alter,  to  balance 
accounts  ;  and  I  know  not  what  I  am,  but  I  know,  O  Jesus, 
what  thou  art.  I  have  trusted  in  thee,  and  shall  never  be 
confounded ; "  and  with  that  last  breath  of  prayer  earth 
was  past. 

A  soft  and  solemn  breathing,  as  of  music,  awakened  him. 
As  an  infant  child  not  yet  fully  awake  hears  the  holy  warblings 
of  his  mother's  hymn,  and  smiles  half  conscious,  so  the  heaven- 
born  became  aware  of  sweet  voices  and  loving  faces  around 
him  ere  yet  he  fully  woke  to  the  new  immortal  Life. 

"  Ah,  he  has  come  at  last.  How  long  we  have  waited  for 
him !  Here  he  is  among  us.  Now  forever  welcome !  wel- 
come !  "  said  the  voices. 

Who  shall  speak  the  joy  of  that  latest  birth,  the  birth  from 
death  to  life  !  the  sweet,  calm,  inbreathing  consciousness  of 
purity  and  rest,  the  certainty  that  all  sin,  all  weakness  and 
error,  are  at  last  gone  forever ;  the  deep,  immortal  rapture  of 
repose  —  felt  to  be  but  begun  —  never  to  end! 

So  the  eyes  of  the  heaven-born  opened  on  the  new  heaven 
and  the  new  earth,  and  wondered  at  the  crowd  of  loving  faces 
35 


410  HOW    TO    MAKE   FRIENDS    WITH    MAMMON. 

that  thronged  about  him.  Fair,  godlike  forms  of  beauty,  such 
as  earth  never  knew,  pressed  round  him  with  blessings,  thanks, 
and  welcome. 

The  man  spoke  not,  but  he  wondered  in  his  heart  who 
they  were,  and  whence  it  came  that  they  knew  him  ;  and  as 
soon  as  the  inquiry  formed  itself  in  his  soul,  it  was  read  at 
once  by  his  heavenly  friends.  "  I,"  said  one  bright  spirit, 
"  was  a  poor  boy  whom  you  found  in  the  streets :  you  sought 
me  out,  you  sent  me  to  school,  you  watched  over  me,  and  led 
me  to  the  house  of  God ;  and  now  here  I  am."  "  And  we," 
said  other  voices,  "  are  other  neglected  children  whom  you  re- 
deemed ;  we  also  thank  you."  "  And  I,"  said  another,  "  was 
a  lost,  helpless  girl:  sold  to  sin  and  shame,  nobody  thought 
I  could  be  saved ;  every  body  passed  me  by  till  you  came. 
You  built  a  home,  a  refuge  for  such  poor  wretches  as  I,  and 
there  I  and  many  like  me  heard  of  Jesus  ;  and  here  we  are." 
"  And  I,"  said  another,  "  was  once  a  clerk  in  your  store.  I 
came  to  the  city  innocent,  but  I  was  betrayed  by  the  tempter. 
I  forgot  my  mother,  and  my  mother's  God.  I  went  to  the 
gaming  table  and  the  theatre,  and  at  last  I  robbed  your  drawer. 
You  might  have  justly  cast  me  otf;  but  you  bore  with  me,  you 
watched  over  me,  you  saved  me.  I  am  here  through  you  this 
day."  "  And  I,"  said  another,  "  was  a  poor  slave  girl — 
doomed  to  be  sold  on  the  auction  block  to  a  life  of  infamy, 
and  the  ruin  of  soul  and  body.  Had  you  not  been  willing  to 
give  so  largely  for  my  ransom,  no  one  had  thought  to  buy  me. 
You  stimulated  others  to  give,  and  I  was  redeemed.  I  lived 
a  Christian  mother  to  bring  my  children  up  for  Christ  —  they 
are  all  here  with  me  to  bless  you  this  day,  and  their  children 
on  earth,  and  their  children's  children  are  growing  up  to  bless 
you."     "  And  I,"  said  another,  "  was  an  unbeliever.     In  the 


HOW    TO    MAKE    FRIENDS    WITH    MAMMON.  411 

pride  of  my  intellect,  I  thought  I  could  demonstrate  the 
absurdity  of  Christianity.  I  thought  I  could  answer  the  argu- 
ment from  miracles  and  prophecy  ;  but  your  patient,  self-deny- 
ing life  was  an  argument  I  never  could  answer.  When  I  saw 
you  spending  all  your  time  and  all  your  money  in  efforts  for 
your  fellow-men,  undiscouraged  by  ingratitude,  and  careless 
of  praise,  then  I  thought,  '  There  is  something  divine  in  that 
man's  life,'  and  that  thought  brought  me  here." 

The  man  looked  around  on  the  gathering  congregation,  and 
he  saw  that  there  was  no  one  whom  he  had  drawn  heaven- 
ward that  had  not  also  drawn  thither  myriads  of  others.  In 
his  lifetime  he  had  been  scattering  seeds  of  good  around  from 
hour  to  hour,  almost  unconsciously ;  and  now  he  saw  every 
seed  springing  up  into  a  widening  forest  of  immortal  beauty 
and  glory.  It  seemed  to  him  that  there  was  to  be  no  end  of 
the  numbers  that  nocked  to  claim  him  as  their  long-expected 
soul  friend.  His  heart  was  full,  and  his  face  became  as  that 
of  an  angel  as  he  looked  up  to  One  who  seemed  nearer  than 
all,  and  said,  "  This  is  thy  love  for  me,  unworthy,  O  Jesus. 
Of  thee,  and  to  thee,  and  through  thee  are  all  tilings.    Amen." 

Amen  !  as  with  chorus  of  many  waters  and  mighty  thunder- 
ings  the  sound  swept  onward,  and  died  far  off  in  chiming 
echoes  among  the  distant  stars,  and  the  man  awoke. 


A  SCENE   IN   JERUSALEM 


It  is  now  nearly  noon,  the  busiest  and  most  bustling  hour 
of  the  day  ;  yet  the  streets  of  the  Holy  City  seem  deserted  and 
silent  as  the  grave.  The  artisan  has  left  his  bench,  the  mer- 
chant his  merchandise;  the  throngs  of  returned  wanderers 
which  this  great  national  festival  has  brought  up  from  every 
land  of  the  earth,  and  which  have  been  for  the  last  week  car- 
rying life  and  motion  through  every  street,  seem  suddenly  to 
have  disappeared.  Here  and  there  solitary  footfalls,  like  the 
last  pattering  rain  drops  after  a  shower,  awaken  the  echoes  of 
the  streets  ;  and  here  and  there  some  lonely  woman  looks  from 
the  housetop  with  anxious  and  agitated  face,  as  if  she  would 
discern  something  in  the  far  distance. 

Alone,  or  almost  alone,  the  few  remaining  priests  move 
like  white-winged,  solitary  birds  over  the  gorgeous  pave- 
ments of  the  temple,  and  as  they  mechanically  conduct  the 
ministrations  of  the  day,  cast  significant  glances  on  each  other, 
and  pause  here  and  there  to  converse  in  anxious   whispers. 

Ah  there  is  one  voice  which  they  have  often  heard  beneath 
those  arches  —  a  voice  which  ever  bore  in  it  a  mysterious  and 
thrilling  charm  —  which  they  know  will  be  hushed  to-day. 
Chief  priest,  scribe,  and  doctor  have  all  gone  out  in  the  death 

(412) 


A    SCENE    IN    JERUSALEM.  413 

procession  after  him  ;  and  these  few  remaining  ones,  far  from 
the  excitement  of  the  crowd,  and  busied  in  calm  and  sacred 
duties,  find  voices  of  anxious  questioning  rising  from  the  depths 
of  their  own  souls,  "  What  if  this  indeed  were  the  Christ  ?  " 

But  pass  we  on  out  of  the  city,  and  what  a  surging  tide  of 
life  and  motion  meets  the  eye,  as  if  all  nations  under  heaven 
had  dashed  their  waves  of  population  on  this  Judean  shore  ! 
A  noisy,  wrathful,  tempestuous  mob,  billow  on  billow,  waver 
and  rally  round  some  central  object,  which  it  conceals  from 
view.  Parthians,  Medes,  Elamites,  dwellers  in  Mesopota- 
tamia  and  Egypt,  strangers  of  Rome,  Cretes  and  Arabians, 
Jew  and  Proselyte,  convoked  from  the  ends  of  the  earth, 
throng  in  agitated  concourse  one  on  another  ;  one  theme  in 
every  face,  on  every  tongue,  one  name  in  every  variety  of  ac- 
cent and  dialect  passing  from  lip  to  lip :  "  Jesus  of  Naza- 
reth !  " 

Look  on  that  man  — the  centre  and  cause  of  all  this  outburst ! 
lie  stands  there  alone.  The  cross  is  ready.  It  lies  beneath  his 
feet.  The  rough  hand  of  a  brutal  soldier  has  seized  his  robe 
to  tear  it  from  him.  Another  with  stalwart  arm  is  boring  the 
holes,  gazing  upward  the  while  with  a  face  of  stupid  uncon- 
cern. There  on  the  ground  lie  the  hammer  and  the  nails : 
the  hour,  the  moment  of  doom  is  come  !  Look  on  this  man, 
as  upward,  with  deep,  sorrowing  eyes,  he  gazes  towards 
heaven.  Hears  he  the  roar  of  the  mob  ?  Feels  he  the  rough 
hand  on  his  garment  ?  Nay,  he  sees  not,  feels  not :  from  all 
the  rage  and  tumult  of  the  hour  he  is  rapt  away.  A  sorrow 
deeper,  more  absorbing,  more  unearthly  seems  to  possess  him, 
as  upward  with  long  gaze  he  looks  to  that  heaven  never  be- 
fore closed  to  his  prayer,  to  that  God  never  before  to  him  in- 
visible. That  mournful,  heaven-searching  glance,  in  its  lonely 
35* 


414  A    SCENE   IN   JERUSALEM. 

anguish,  says  but  one  thing :  "  Lo,  I  come  to  do  thy  will,  0 
God." 

Through  a  life  of  sorrow  the  realized  love  of  his  Father 
has  shone  like  a  precious  and  beautiful  talisman  in  his  bosom  ; 
but  now,  when  desolation  and  anguish  have  come  upon  him 
as  a  whirlwind,  this  last  star  has  gone  out  in  the  darkness,  and 
Jesus,  deserted  by  man  and  God,  stands  there  alone. 

Alone  ?  No ;  for  undaunted  by  the  cruel  mob,  fearless  in 
the  strength  of  mortal  anguish,  helpless,  yet  undismayed, 
stands  the  one  blessed  among  women,  the  royal  daughter  of  a 
noble  line,  the  priestess  to  whose  care  was  intrusted  this  spot- 
less sacrifice.  She  and  her  son,  last  of  a  race  of  kings,  stand 
there  despised,  rejected,  and  disavowed  by  their  nation,  to  ac- 
complish dread  words  of  prophecy,  which  have  swept  clown 
for  far  ages  to  this  hour. 

Strange  it  is,  in  this  dark  scene,  to  see  the  likeness  between 
mother  and  son,  deepening  in  every  line  of  those  faces,  as 
they  stand  thus  thrown  out  by  the  dark  background  of  rage 
and  hate,  which  like  a  storm  cloud  lowers  around.  The  same 
rapt,  absorbed,  calm  intensity  of  anguish  in  both  mother  and 
son,  save  only  that  while  he  gazes  upward  towards  God,  she, 
with  like  fervor,  gazes  on  him.  What  to  her  is  the  deriding 
mob,  the  coarse  taunt,  the  brutal  abuse  ?  Of  it  all  she  hears, 
she  feels  nothing.  She  sinks  not,  faints  not,  weeps  not ;  her 
whole  being  concentrates  in  the  will  to  suffer  by  and  with  him 
to  the  last.  Other  hearts  there  are  that  beat  for  him  ;  others 
that  press  into  the  doomed  circle,  and  own  him  amid  the 
scorn  of  thousands.  There  may  you  see  the  clasped  hands 
and  upraised  eyes  of  a  Magdalen,  the  pale  and  steady  resolve 
of  John,  the  weeping  company  of  women  who  bewailed  and 
lamented  him  ;  but  none  dare  press  so  near,  or  seem  so  identi- 
cal with  him  in  his  sufferings,  as  this  mother. 


A    SCENE    IN   JERUSALEM.  415 

And  as  we  gaze  on  these  two  in  human  form,  surrounded 
by  other  human  forms,  how  strange  the  contrast !  How  is  it 
possible  that  human  features  and  human  lineaments  essential- 
ly alike,  can  be  wrought  into  such  heaven-wide  contrast? 
Man  is  he  who  stands  there,  lofty  and  spotless,  in  bleeding 
patience !  Men  also  are  those  brutal  soldiers,  alike  stupidly 
ready,  at  the  word  of  command,  to  drive  the  nail  through 
quivering  flesh  or  insensate  wood.  Men  are  those  scowling 
priests  and  infuriate  Pharisees.  Me?i,  also,  the  shifting  fig- 
ures of  the  careless  rabble,  who  shout  and  curse  without 
knowing  why.  No  visible  glory  shines  round  that  head  ;  yet 
how,  spite  of  every  defilement  cast  upon  him  by  the  vulgar 
rabble,  seems  that  form  to  be  glorified !  What  light  is  that  in 
those  eyes  !  What  mournful  beauty  in  that  face  !  What 
solemn,  mysterious  sacredness  investing  the  whole  form,  con- 
straining from  us  the  exclamation,  "  Surely  this  is  the  Son 
of  God."  Man's  voice  is  breathing  vulgar  taunt  and  jeer  : 
"  He  saved  others  ;  himself  he  cannot  save."  "  He  trusted  in 
God  ;  let  him  deliver  him  if  he  will  have  him."  And  man's, 
also,  clear,  sweet,  unearthly,  pierces  that  stormy  mob,  saying, 
"  Father,  forgive  them ;  they  know  not  what  they  do." 

But  we  draw  the  veil  in  reverence.  It  is  not  ours  to  pic- 
ture what  the  sun  refused  to  shine  upon,  and  earth  shook  to 
behold. 

Little  thought  those  weeping  women,  that  stricken  disciple, 
that  heart-broken  mother,  how  on  some  future  day  that  cross 
—  emblem  to  them  of  deepest  infamy  —  should  blaze  in  the 
eye  of  all  nations,  symbol  of  triumph  and  hope,  glittering 
on  gorgeous  fanes,  embroidered  on  regal  banners,  associated 
with  all  that  is  revered  and  powerful  on  earth.  The  Roman 
ensign  that  waved  on   that  mournful  day,  symbol  of  highest 


416  A    SCENE    IN    JERUSALEM. 

earthly  power,  is  a  thing  mouldered  and  forgotten ;  and  over 
all  the  high  places  of  old  Rome,  herself  stands  that  mystical 
cross,  no  longer  speaking  of  earthly  anguish  and  despair,  but 
of  heavenly  glory,  honor,  and  immortality. 

Theologians  have  endlessly  disputed  and  philosophized  on 
this  great  fact  of  atonement.  The  Bible  tells  only  that  this 
tragic  event  was  the  essential  point  without  which  our  salva- 
tion could  never  have  been  secured.  But  where  lay  the  ne- 
cessity they  do  not  say.  What  was  that  dread  strait  that 
either  the  divine  One  must  thus  suffer,  or  man  be  lost,  who 
knoweth  ? 

To  this  question  answer  a  thousand  voices,  with  each  a  dif- 
ferent solution,  urged  with  equal  confidence  —  each  solution 
to  its  framer  as  certain  and  sacred  as  the  dread  fact  it  ex- 
plains —  yet  every  one,  perhaj^s,  unsatisfactory  to  the  deep- 
questioning  soul.  The  Bible,  as  it  always  does,  gives  on  this 
point  not  definitions  or  distinct  outlines,  but  images  —  images 
which  lose  all  their  glory  and  beauty  if  seized  by  the  harsh 
hands  of  metaphysical  analysis,  but  inexpressibly  affecting  to 
the  unlettered  human  heart,  which  softens  in  gazing  on  their 
mournful  and  mysterious  beauty.  Christ  is  called  our  sacri- 
fice, our  passover,  our  atoning  high  priest ;  and  he  himself, 
while  holding  in  his  hands  the  emblem  cup,  says,  "  It  is  my 
blood,  shed  for  many,  for  the  remission  of  sins."  Let  us 
reason  on  it  as  we  will,  this  story  of  the  cross,  presented 
without  explanation  in  the  simple  metaphor  of  the  Bible, 
has  produced  an  effect  on  human  nature  wholly  unaccount- 
able. In  every  age  and  clime,  with  every  variety  of 
habit,  thought,  and  feeling,  from  the  cannibals  of  New  Zea- 
land and  Madagascar  to  the  most  enlightened  and  scientific 
minds    in    Christendom,    one    feeling,    essentially    homogene- 


A    SCENE    IN   JERUSALEM.  417 

ous  in  its  character  and  results,  has  arisen  in  view  of  this 
cross.  There  is  something  in  it  that  strikes  one  of  the  great 
nerves  of  simple,  unsophisticated  humanity,  and  meets  its 
wants  as  nothing  else  will.  Ages  ago,  Paul  declared  to  phi- 
losophizing _  Greek  and  scornful  Roman  that  he  was  not 
ashamed  of  this  gospel,  and  alleged  for  his  reason  this 
very  adaptedness  to  humanity.  A  priori,  many  would  have 
said  that  Paul  should  have  told  of  Christ  living,  Christ 
preaching,  Christ  working  miracles,  not  omitting  also  the  pa- 
thetic history  of  how  he  sealed  all  with  his  blood ;  but  Paul 
declared  that  he  determined  to  know  nothing  else  but  Christ 
crucified.  He  said  it  was  a  stumbling  block  to  the  Jew,  an  ab- 
surdity to  the  Greek ;  yet  he  was  none  the  less  positive  in  his 
course.  True,  there  was  many  then,  as  now,  who  looked  on 
with  the  most  philosophic  and  cultivated  indifference.  The 
courtly  Festus,  as  he  settled  his  purple  tunic,  declared  he  could 
make  nothing  of  the  matter,  only  a  dispute  about  one  Jesus, 
who  was  dead,  and  whom  Paul  affirmed  to  be  alive  ;  and  per- 
chance some  Athenian,  as  he  reclined  on  his  ivory  couch  at 
dinner,  after  the  sermon  on  Mars  Hill,  may  have  disposed  of 
the  matter  very  summarily,  and  passed  on  to  criticisms  on 
Samian  wine  and  marble  vases.  Yet  in  spite  of  their  disbe- 
lief, this  story  of  Christ  has  outlived  them,  their  age  and  na- 
tion, and  is  to  this  hour  as  fresh  in  human  hearts  as  if  it  were 
just  published.  This  "  one  Jesus  which  was  dead,  and  whom 
Paul  affirmed  to  be  alive,"'  is  nominally,  at  least,  the  object  of 
religious  homage  in  all  the  more  cultivated  portions  of  the 
globe  ;  and  to  hearts  scattered  through  all  regions  of  the 
earth  this  same  Jesus  is  now  a  sacred  and  living  name,  dearer 
than  all  household  sounds,  all  ties  of  blood,  all  sweetest  and 
nearest  affections  of  humanity.     "  I  am  ready  not  only  to  be 


418  A    SCENE    IN    JERUSALEM. 

bound,  but  also  to  die  for  the  name  of  the  Lord  Jesus,"  are 
words  that  have  found  an  echo  in  the  bosoms  of  thousands  in 
every  age  since  then ;  that  would,  if  need  were,  find  no  less 
echo  in  thousands  now.  Considering  Christ  as  a  man,  and  his 
death  as  a  mere  pathetic  story,  —  considering  him  as  one  of 
the  great  martyrs  for  truth,  who  sealed  it  with  his  blood,  —  this 
result  is  wholly  unaccountable.  Other  martyrs  have  died, 
bravely  and  tenderly,  in  their  last  hours  "  bearing  witness  of 
the  godlike  "  that  is  in  man ;  but  who  so  remembers  them  ? 
"Who  so  loves  them  ?  To  whom  is  any  one  of  them  a  living 
presence,  a  life,  an  all  ?  Yet  so  thousands  look  on  Jesus  at 
this  hour. 

Nay,  it  is  because  this  story  strikes  home  to  every  human 
bosom  as  an  individual  concern.  A  thrilling  voice  speaks 
from  this  scene  of  anguish  to  every  human  bosom :  This  is 
thy  Savior.  Thy  sin  hath  done  this.  It  is  the  appropriative 
words,  thine  and  mine,  which  make  this  history  different  from 
any  other  history.  This  was  for  me,  is  the  thought  which  has 
pierced  the  apathy  of  the  Greenlander,  and  kindled  the  stolid 
clay  of  the  Hottentot ;  and  no  human  bosom  has  ever  been 
found  so  Ioav,  so  lost,  so  guilty,  so  despairing,  that  this  truth, 
once  received,  has  not  had  power  to  redeem,  regenerate,  and 
disenthrall.  Christ  so  presented  becomes  to  every  human 
being  a  friend  nearer  than  the  mother  who  bore  him ;  and  the 
more  degraded,  the  more  hopeless  and  polluted,  is  the  nature, 
the  stronger  comes  on  the  living  reaction,  if  this  belief  is 
really  and  vividly  enkindled  with  it.  But  take  away  this 
appropriative,  individual  element,  and  this  legend  of  Jesus's 
death  has  no  more  power  than  any  other.  He  is  to  us  no 
more  than  Washington  or  Socrates,  or  Howard.  And  where 
is  there  not  a  touchstone  to  try  every  theory  of  atonement  ? 


A    SCENE    IN    JERUSALEM.  419 

Yvrhatever  makes  a  man  feel  that  he  is  only  a  spectator,  an  un- 
interested judge  in  this  matter,  is  surely  astray  from  the  idea 
of  the  Bible.  Whatever  makes  him  feel  that  his  sins  have 
done  this  deed,  that  he  is  bound,  soul  and  body,  to  this  Deliv- 
erer, though  it  may  be  in  many  points  philosophically  errone- 
ous, cannot  go  far  astray. 

If  we  could  tell  the  number  of  the  stars,  and  call  them 
forth  by  name,  then,  perhaps,  might  we  solve  all  the  mystic 
symbols  by  which  the  Bible  has  shadowed  forth  the  far-lying 
necessities  and  reachings-forth  of  this  event  "  among  princi- 
palities and  powers,"  and  in  "ages  to  come."  But  he  who 
knows  nothing  of  all  this,  who  shall  so  present  the  atonement 
as  to  bind  and  affiance  human  souls  indissolubly  to  their  Re- 
deemer, does  all  that  could  be  done  by  the  highest  and  most 
perfect  knowledge. 

The  great  object  is  accomplished,  when  the  soul,  rapt,  in- 
spired, feels  the  deep  resolve,  — 

"  Remember  Thee ! 
Yea,  from  the  table  of  my  memory 
I'll  wipe  away  all  trivial,  fond  records, 
All  saws  of  books,  all  forms,  all  pressures  past 
That  youth  and  observation  copied  there, 
And  thy  commandment  all  alone  shall  live 
Within  the  book  and  volume  of  my  brain, 
Unmixed  with  baser  matter." 


THE  OLD  MEETING  HOUSE. 

SKETCH  FROM  THE  NOTE  BOOK  OF  AN  OLD 
GENTLEMAN. 


Never  shall  I  forget  the  dignity  and  sense  of  importance 
which  swelled  my  mind  when  I  was  first  pronounced  old 
enough  to  go  to  meeting.  That  eventful  Sunday  I  was  up 
long  before  day,  and  even  took  my  Sabbath  suit  to  the  win- 
dow to  ascertain  by  the  first  light  that  it  actually  was  there, 
just  as  it  looked  the  night  before.  With  what  complacency 
did  I  view  myself  completely  dressed !  How  did  I  count 
over  the  rows  of  yellow  gilt  buttons  on  my  coat !  how  my 
good  mother,  grandmother,  and  aunts  fussed,  and  twitched, 
and  pulled,  to  make  every  thing  set  up  and  set  down,  just  in 
the  proper  place  !  how  my  clean,  starched  white  collar  was 
turned  over  and  smoothed  again  and  again,  and  my  golden 
curls  twisted  and  arranged  to  make  the  most  of  me  !  and,  last 
of  all,  how  I  was  cautioned  not  to  be  thinking  of  my  clothes  ! 
In  truth,  I  was  in  those  days  a  very  handsome  youngster,  and 
it  really  is  no  more  than  justice  to  let  the  fact  be  known,  as 
there  is  nothing  in  my  present  appearance  from  which  it  could 
ever  be  inferred.     Every  body  in  the  house  successively  asked 

(420) 


THE    OLD    MEETING    HOUSE.  421 

me  if  I  should  be  a  good  boy,  and  sit  still,  and  not  talk,  nor 
laugh  ;  and  my  mother  informed  me,  in  terrorem,  that  there 
was  a  tithing  man,  who  carried  off  naughty  children,  and  shut 
them  up  in  a  dark  place  behind  the  pulpit ;  and  that  this 
tithing  man,  Mr.  Zephaniah  Scranton,  sat  just  where  he  could 
see  me.  This  fact  impressed  my  mind  with  more  solemnity 
than  all  the  exhortations  which  had  preceded  it  —  a  proof  of 
the  efficacy  of  facts  above  reason.  Under  shadow  and 
power  of  this  weighty  truth,  I  demurely  took  hold  of  my 
mother's  forefinger  to  walk  to  meeting. 

The  traveller  in  New  England,  as  he  stands  on  some  emi- 
nence, and  looks  down  on  its  rich  landscape  of  golden  grain 
and  waving  cornfield,  sees  no  feature  more  beautiful  than  its 
simple  churches,  whose  white  taper  fingers  point  upward,  amid 
the  greenness  and  bloom  of  the  distant  prospects,  as  if  to 
remind  one  of  the  overshadowing  providence  whence  all  this 
luxuriant  beauty  flows ;  and  year  by  year,  as  new  ones  are 
added  to  the  number,  or  succeed  in  the  place  of  old  ones, 
there  is  discernible  an  evident  improvement  in  their  taste  and 
architecture.  Those  modest  Doric  little  buildings,  with  their 
white  pillars,  green  blinds,  and  neat  enclosures,  are  very  dif- 
ferent affairs  from  those  great,  uncouth  mountains  of  windows 
and  doors  that  stood  in  the  same  place  years  before.  To  my 
childish  eye,  however,  our  old  meeting  house  was  an  awe- 
inspiring  thing.  To  me  it  seemed  fashioned  very  nearly  on 
the  model  of  Noah's  ark  and  Solomon's  temple,  as  set  forth  in 
the  pictures  in  my  Scripture  Catechism  —  pictures  which  I  did 
not  doubt  were  authentic  copies ;  and  what  more  respectable 
and  venerable  architectural  precedent  could  any  one  desire  ? 
Its  double  rows  of  windows,  of  which  I  knew  the  number  by 
:  i.  its  doors  with  great  wooden  quirls  over  them,  its  1 
36 


422  THE    OLD    MEETING    HOUSE. 

projecting  out  at  the  east  end,  its  steeple  and  bell,  all  inspired 
as  much  sense  of  the  sublime  in  me  as  Strasbourg  Cathedral 
itself;  and  the  inside  was  not  a  whit  less  imposing. 

How  magnificent,  to  my  eye,  seemed  the  turnip-like  canopy 
that  hung  over  the  minister's  head,  hooked  by  a  long  iron 
rod  to  the  wall  above !  and  how  apprehensively  did  I  consider 
the  question,  what  would  become  of  him  if  it  should  fall ! 
How  did  I  wonder  at  the  panels  on  either  side  of  the  pulpit, 
in  each  of  which  was  carved  and  painted  a  flaming  red  tulip, 
bolt  upright,  with  its  leaves  projecting  out  at  right  angles  !  and 
then  at  the  grape  vine,  bass  relieved  on  the  front,  with  its  ex- 
actly triangular  bunches  of  grapes,  alternating  at  exact  intervals 
with  exactly  triangular  leaves.  To  me  it  was  an  indisputable 
representation  of  how  grape  vines  ought  to  look,  if  they 
would  only  be  straignt  and  regular,  instead  of  curling  and 
scrambling,  and  twisting  themselves  into  all  sorts  of  slovenly 
shape.-.  The  area  of  the  house  was  divided  into  large  square 
pew.-,  boxed  up  with  stout  boards,  and  surmounted  with  a 
kind  of  baluster  work,  which  I  supposed  to  be  provided  for 
the  special  accommodation  of  us  youngsters,  being  the  "loop- 
holes of  retreat "  through  which  we  gazed  on  the  "  remarka- 
bilia "  of  the  scene.  It  was  especially  interesting  to  me  to 
notice  the  coming  in  to  meeting  of  the  congregation.  The 
doors  were  so  contrived  that  on  entering  you  stepped  down 
instead  of  up —  a  construction  that  has  more- than  once  led  to 
unlucky  results  in  the  case  of  strangers.  I  remember  once 
when  an  unlucky  Frenchman,  entirely  unsuspicious  of  the 
danger  that  awaited  him,  made  entrance  by  pitching  devoutly 
upon  his  nose  in  the  middle  of  the  broad  aisle;  that  it  took 
three  bunches  of  my  grandmother's  fennel  to  bring  my  risibles 
into  any  thing  like  composure.     Such  exhibitions,  fortunatelv 


THE    OLD    MEETING    HOUSE.  423 

for  me,  were  very  rare ;  but  still  I  found  great  amusement  in 
watching  the  distinctive  and  marked  outlines  of  the  various 
people  that  filled  up  the  seats  around  me.  A  Yankee  village 
presents  a  picture  of  the  curiosities  of  every  generation  :  there, 
from  year  to  year,  they  live  on,  preserved  by  hard  labor  and 
regular  habits,  exhibiting  every  peculiarity  of  maimer  and 
appearance,  as  distinctly  marked  as  when  they  first  came  from 
the  mint  of  nature.  And  as  every  body  goes  punctually  to 
meeting,  the  meeting  house  becomes  a  sort  of  museum  of  an- 
tiquities—  a  general  muster  ground  for  past  and  present. 

I  remember  still  with  what  wondering  admiration  I  used  to 
look  around  on  the  people  that  surrounded  our  pew.  On  one 
side  there  was  an  old  Captain  McLean,  and  Major  McDill,  a 
couple  whom  the  mischievous  wits  of  the  village  designated 
as  Captain  McLean  and  Captain  McFat ;  and,  in  truth,  they 
were  a  perfect  antithesis,  a  living  exemplification  of  flesh  and 
6pirit.  Captain  McLean  was  a  mournful,  lengthy,  considerate- 
looking  old  gentleman,  with  a  long  face  digressing  into  a  long, 
thin,  horny  nose,  which,  when  he  applied  his  pocket  handker- 
chief, gave  forth  a  melancholy,  minor-keyed  sound,  such  as  a 
ghost  might  make,  using  a  pocket  handkerchief  in  the  long 
gallery  of  some  old  castle. 

Close  at  his  side  was  the  doughty,  puffing  Captain  McDill, 
whose  full-orbed,  jolly  visage  was  illuminated  by  a  most  valiant 
red  nose,  shaped  something  like  an  overgrown  doughnut,  and 
looking  as  if  it  had  been  thrown  at  his  face,  and  happened  to 
hit  in  the  middle.  Then  there  was  old  Israel  Peters,  with  a 
wooden  leg,  which  tramped  into  meeting,  with  undeviating 
regularity,  ten  minutes  before  meeting  time;  and  there  was 
Jedediah  Stebbins,  a  thin,  wistful,  moonshiny-looking  old  gen- 
tleman, whose  mouth  appeared  as  if  it  had  been  gathered  uj» 


424  THE    OLD    MEETING    HOUSE. 

with  a  needle  and  thread,  and  whose  eyes  seemed  as  if  they 
had  been  bound  with  red  tape  ;  and  there  was  old  Benaiah 
Stephens,  who  used  regularly  to  get  up  and  stand  when  the 
mini-tor  was  about  half  through  his  sermon,  exhibiting  his  tall 
figure,  long,  single-breasted  coat,  with  buttons  nearly  as  large 
as  a  tea  plate  ;  his  large,  black,  horn  spectacles  stretched 
down  on  the  extreme  end  of  a  very  long  nose,  and  vigorously 
chewing,  meanwhile,  on  the  bunch  of  caraway  which  he  always 
carried  in  one  hand.  Then  there  was  Aunt  Sally  Stimpson, 
and  old  Widow  Smith,  and  a  whole  bevy  of  little,  dried  old 
ladies,  with  small,  straight,  black  bonnets,  tight  sleeves  to  the 
elbow,  long  silk  gloves,  and  great  fans,  big  enough  for  a  wind- 
mill ;  and  of  a  hot  day  it  was  a  great  amusement  to  me  to 
watch  the  bobbing  of  the  little  black  bonnets,  which  showed 
that  sleep  had  got  the  better  of  their  owners'  attention,  and 
the  sputter  and  rustling  of  the  fans,  when  a  more  profound 
nod  than  common  would  suddenly  waken  them,  and  set  them 
to  fanning  and  listening  with  redoubled  devotion.  There  was 
Deacon  Dundas,  a  great  wagon  load  of  an  old  gentleman, 
whose  ample  pockets  looked  as  if  they  might  have  held  half 
the  congregation,  who  used  to  establish  himself  just  on  one 
Bide  of  me,  and  seemed  to  feel  such  entire  confidence  in 
the  soundness  and  capacity  of  his  pastor  that  he  could  sleep 
very  comfortably  from  one  end  of  the  sermon  to  the  other. 
Occasionally,  to  be  sure,  one  of  your  officious  blue  flies,  who, 
as  every  body  knows,  are  amazingly  particular  about  such 
matters,  would  buz/  into  his  mouth,  or  flirt  into  his  ears  a 
passing  admonition  as  to  the  impropriety  of  sleeping  in  meet- 
ing when  the  good  old  gentleman  would  start,  open  his  eyes 
very  wide,  and  look  about  with  a  resolute  air,  as  much  as 
to  siy.  "  I    wasn't  asleep,  I  can  tell  you;"  and  then  setting 


THE    OLD    MEETING    HOUSE.  125 

himself  in  an  edifying  posture  of  attention,  you  might  percei\  e 
his  head  gradually  settling  back,  his  mouth  slowly  opening 
wider  and  wider,  till  the  good  man  would  go  off  again  soundly 
asleep,  as  if  nothing  had  happened. 

It  was  a  good  orthodox  custom  of  old  times  to  take  every 
part  of  the  domestic  establishment  to  meeting,  even  down  to 
the  faithful  dog,  who,  as  he  had  supervised  the  labors  of  the 
week,  also  came  with  due  particularity  to  supervise  the 
worship  of  Sunday.  I  think  I  can  see  now  the  fitting  out  on 
a  Sunday  morning —  the  one  wagon,  or  two,  as  the  case  might 
be," tackled  up  with  an  "old  gray"  or  an  "old  bay,"  with  a 
buffalo  skin  over  the  seat  by  way  of  cushion,  and  all  the  family, 
in  their  Sunday  best,  packed  in  for  meeting;  while  Master 
Bose,  Watch,  or  Towser  stood  prepared  to  be  an  outguard 
and  went  meekly  trotting  up  hill  and  down  dale  in  the 
rear.  Arrived  at  meeting,  the  canine  part  of  the  establish- 
ment generally  conducted  themselves  with  great  decorum, 
lying  down  and  going  to  sleep  as  decently  as  any  body  present, 
except  when  some  of  the  business-loving  bluebottles  aforesaid 
would  make  a  sortie  upon  them,  when  you  might  hear  the 
snap  of  their  jaws  as  they  vainly  sought  to  lay  hold  of  the 
offender.  Now  and  then,  between  some  of  the  sixthlies,  sev- 
enthlies,  and  eighthlies,  you  might  hear  some  old  patriarch 
giving  himself  a  rousing  shake,  and  pitpatting  soberly  up  the 
aisles,  as  if  to  see  that  everything  was  going  on  properly, 
after  which  he  would  lie  down  and  compose  himself  t<>  Bleep 
again  ;  and  certainly  this  was  as  improving  a  way  of  spending 
Sunday  as  a  good  Christian  dog  could  desire. 

But  the  glory  of  our  meeting  house  was  its  singers'  seal  — 
that  empyrean  of  those  who  rejoiced  in  the  divine  mysterious 
art  of  fa-sol-la-ing,  who,  by  a   distinguishing  grace  and  privi- 
36* 


426  THE    OLD    MEETING    HOUSE. 


could  "raise  and  fall"  the  cabalistical  eight  notes,  and 
move  serene  through  the  enchanted  region  of  flats,  sharps, 
thirds, "fifths,  and  octaves. 

There  they  sat  in  the  gallery  that  lined  three  sides  of  the 
house,  treble,  counter,  tenor,  and  bass,  each  with  its  appro- 
Id' i  ate  leaders  and  supporters  ;  there  were  generally  seated  the 
bloom  of  our  young  people  ;  sparkling,  modest,  and  blushing 
girls  on  one  side,  with  their  ribbons  and  finery,  making  the 
place  where  they  sat  as  blooming  and  lively  as  a  flower  gar- 
den, and  fiery,  forward,  confident  young  men  on  the  other. 
In  spite  of  its  being  a  meeting  house,  we  could  not  swear 
that  glances  were  never  given  and  returned,  and  that  there 
was  not  often  as  much  of  an  approach  to  flirtation  as  the  dis- 
tance and  the  sobriety  of  the  place  would  admit.  Certain  it 
was,  that  there  was  no  place  where  our  village  coquettes  at- 
tracted half  so  many  eyes  or  led  astray  half  so  many  hearts. 

But  I  have  been  talking  of  singers  all  this  time,  and  neg- 
lected to  mention  the  Magnus  Apollo  of  the  whole  concern, 
the  redoubt  aide  chorister,  who  occupied  the  seat  of  honor  in 
the  midst  of  the  middle  gallery,  and  exactly  opposite  to  the 
minister.  Certain  it  is  that  the  good  man,  if  he  were  alive, 
would  never  believe  it;  for  no  person  ever  more  magnified  his 
office,  or  had  a  more  thorough  belief  in  his  own  greatness  and 
supremacy,  than  Zedekiah  Morse.  Methinks  I  can  see  him 
now  as  he  appeared  to  my  eyes  on  that  first  Sunday,  when  he 
-hot  up  from  behind  the  gallery,  as  if  he  had  been  sent  up  by 
:i  spring.  He  was  a  little  man,  whose  fiery-red  hair,  brushed 
straight  up  on  the  top  of  his  head,  had  an  appearance  as  vig- 
orous  and  lively  as  real  flame;  and  this,  added  to  the  ardor 
and  determination  of  all  his  motions,  had  obtained  for  him 
the  surname  of  the  "Burning  Bush."     He  seemed  possessed 


THE    OLD    MEETING    HOUSE.  427 

with  the  very  soul  of  song;  and  from  the  moment  he  began  to 
sing,  looked  alive  all  over,  till  it  seemed  to  me  that  his  whole 
body  would  follow  his  hair  upwards,  fairly  rapt  away  by  the 
power  of  harmony.  "With  what  an  air  did  he  sound  the  im- 
portant fa-sol-la  in  the  ears  of  the  waiting  gallery,  who  stood 
with  open  mouths  ready  to  seize  their  pitch,  preparatory  to 
their  general  set  to  !  How  did  his  ascending  and  descending 
arm  astonish  the  zephyrs  when  once  lie  laid  himself  out  to 
the  important  work  of  beating  time  !  How  did  his  little  head 
whisk  from  side  to  side,  as  now  he  beat  and  roared  towards  the 
ladies  on  his  right,  and  now  towards  the  gentlemen  on  his  left  I 
It  used  to  seem  to  my  astonished  vision  as  if  his  form  grew 
taller,  his  arm  longer,  his  hair  redder,  and  his  little  green  i 
brighter,  with  every  stave;  and  particularly  when  he  per- 
ceived any  falling  off  of  time  or  discrepancy  in  pitch  ;  with 
what  redoubled  vigor  would  he  thump  the  gallery  and  roar  at 
the  delinquent  quarter,  till  every  mother's  son  and  daughter 
of  them  skipped  and  scrambled  into  the  right  place  again  ! 

O,  it  was  a  fine  thing  to  see  the  vigor  and  discipline  with 
which  he  managed  the  business;  so  that  if,  on  a  hot,  dro 
Sunday,  any  part  of  the  choir  hung  back  or  sung  sleepily  on 
the  first  part  of  a  verse,  they  were  obliged  to  bestir  themselves 
in  good  earnest,  and  sing  three  times  as  fast,  in  order  t<-  gel 
through  with  the  others.  'Kiah  Morse  was  no  advocate  for 
your  dozy,  drawling  singing,  that  one  may  do  at  leisure,  be- 
tween sleeping  and  waking,  I  assure  you;  indeed,  he  got 
entirely  out  of  the  graces  of  Deacon  Dundas  and  one  or  two 
other  portly,  leisurely  old  gentlemen  below,  who  had  been 
used  to  throw  back  their  heads,  shut  up  their  eyes,  and  tal  e 
the  comfort  of  the  psalm,  by  prolonging  indefinitely  all  the 
notes.     The  first  Sunday  after  'Kiah  took  the  music  in  hand, 


428  THE    OLD    MEETING    HOUSE. 

the  old  deacon  really  rubbed  his  eyes  and  looked  about  him ; 
for  the  psalm  was  sung  off  before  he  was  ready  to  get  his 
mouth  opened,  and  he  really  looked  upon  it  as  a  most  irrev- 
erent piece  of  business. 

But  the  glory  of  'Kiah's  art  consisted  in  the  execution  of 
those  good  old  billowy  compositions  called  fuguing  tunes, 
where  the  four  parts  that  compose  the  choir  take  up  the  song, 
and  go  racing  around  one  after  another,  each  singing  a  differ- 
ent set  of  words,  till,  at  length,  by  some  inexplicable  magic, 
they  all  come  together  again,  and  sail  smoothly  out  into  a 
rolling  sea  of  song.  I  remember  the  wonder  with  which 
I  used  to  look  from  side  to  side  when  treble,  tenor,  coun- 
ter, and  base  were  thus  roaring  and  foaming, — and  it  verily 
seemed  to  me  as  if  the  psalm  was  going  to  pieces  among  the 
breakers,  —  and  the  delighted  astonishment  with  which  I  found 
that  each  particular  verse  did  emerge  whole  and  .uninjured 
from  the  storm. 

But  alas  for  the  wonders  of  that  old  meeting  house,  how 
they  are  passed  away  !  Even  the  venerable  building  itself 
'  has  been  pulled  down,  and  its  fragments  scattered  ;  yet  still  I 
retain  enough  of  my  childish  feelings  to  wonder  whether  any  little 
boy  was  gratified  by  the  possession  of  those  painted  tulips  and 
grape  vines,  which  my  childish  eye  used  to  covet,  and  about 
the  obtaining  of  which,  in  case  the  house  should  ever  be 
pulled  down,  I  devised  so  many  schemes  during  the  long  ser- 
mons and  services  of  summer  days.  I  have  visited  the  spot 
where  it  stood,  but  the  modern,  fair-looking  building  that  stands 
in  its  room  bears  no  trace  of  it  ;  and  of  the  various  familiar 
faces  that  used  to  be  seen  inside,  not  one  remains.  Verily,  I 
must  be  growing  old;  and  as  old  people  are  apt  to  spin  long 
stories,  I  check  myself,  and  lay  down  my  pen. 


THE  NEW-YEAR'S   GIFT 


The  sparkling  ice  and  snow  covered  hill  and  valley  —  tree 
and  bush  were  glittering  with  diamonds  —  the  broad,  coarse 
rails  of  the  fence  shone  like  bars  of  solid  silver,  while  little 
fringes  of  icicles  glittered  between  each  bar. 

In  the  yard  of  yonder  dwelling  the  scarlet  berries  of  the 
mountain  ash  shine  through  a  transparent  casing  of  crystal, 
and  the  sable  spruces  and  white  pines,  powdered  and  glittering 
with  the  frost,  have  assumed  an  icy  brilliancy.  The  eaves  of 
the  house,  the  door  knocker,  the  pickets  of  the  fence,  the 
honeysuckles  and  seringas,  once  the  boast  of  summer,  are 
all  alike  polished,  varnished,  and  resplendent  witli  their 
winter  trappings,  now  gleaming  in  the  last  rays  of  the  early 
sunset. 

Within  that  large,  old-fashioned  dwelling  might  you  see  an 
ample  parlor,  all  whose  adjustments  and  arrangements  speak 
of  security,  warmth,  and  home  enjoyment;  of  money  spent 
not  for  show,  but  for  comfort.  Thick  crimson  curtains  descend 
in  heavy  folds  over  the  embrasures  of  the  windows,  and  the 
ample  hearth  and  wide  fireplace  speak  of  the  customs  of  the 
good  old  times,  ere  that  gloomy,  unpoetic,  unsocial  gnom<  the 
air-tight  —  had  monopolized  the  place  of  the  blazinj 


430  the  new-year's  gift. 

No  dark  air-tight,  however,  filled  our  ancient  chimney ;  but 
there  was  a  genuine  old-fashioned  fire  of  the  most  approved 
architecture,  with  a  gallant  backlog  and  forestick,  supporting 
and  keeping  in  order  a  crackling  pile  of  dry  wood,  that  was 
•/.birring  and  blazing  warm  welcome  for  all  whom  it  might 
concern,  occasionally  bursting  forth  into  most  portentous  and 
earnest  snaps,  which  rung  through  the  room  with  a  genuine, 
hospitable  emphasis,  as  if  the  fire  was  enjoying  himself,  and 
having  a  good  time,  and  wanted  all  hands  to  draw  up  and 
make  themselves  at  home  with  him. 

So  looked  that  parlor  to  me,  when,  tired  with  a  long  day's 
ride,  I  found  my  way  into  it,  just  at  evening,  and  was  greeted 
with  a  hearty  welcome  from  my  old  friend,  Colonel  Winthrop. 

In  addition  to  all  that  I  have  already  described,  let  the 
reader  add,  if  he  pleases,  the  vision  of  a  wide  and  ample  tea 
table,  covered  with  a  snowy  cloth,  on  which  the  servants  are 
depositing  the  evening  meal. 

I  had  not  seen  Winthrop  for  years  ;  but  we  were  old  col- 
lege friends,  and  I  had  gladly  accepted  an  invitation  to  renew 
our  ancient  intimacy  by  passing  the  New  Year's  season  in  his 
family.  I  found  him  still  the  same  hale,  kindly,  cheery  fellow 
as  in  clays  of  old,  though  time  had  taken  the  same  liberty  with 
his  handsome  head  that  Jack  Frost  had  with  the  cedars  and 
spruces  out  of  doors,  in  giving  to  it  a  graceful  and  becoming 
sprinkle  of  silver. 

"  Here  you  are,  my  dear  fellow,"  said  he,  shaking  me  by 
both  hands  —  "just  in  season  for  the  ham  and  chickens  —  cof- 
fee  all  smoking.  My  dear,"  he  added  to  a  motherly-looking 
woman  who  now  entered,  "  here's  John  !  I  beg  pardon,  Mr. 
Stuart."  As  he  spoke,  two  bold,  handsome  boys  broke  into 
the  room,  accompanied  by  a  huge  Newfoundland  dog  —  all  as 


THE    NEW-TEAR'S    GIFT.  431 

full  of  hilarity  and  abundant  animation  as  an  afternoon  of 
glorious  skating  could  have  generated. 

"  Ha,  Tom  and  Ned  !  —  you  rogues  —  you  don't  want  any 
supper  to-night,  I  suppose,"  said  the  father,  gayly  ;  "  come  up 
here  and  be  introduced  to  my  old  friend.  Here  they  come  ! " 
said  he,  as  one  by  one  the  opening  doors  admitted  the  various 
children  to  the  summons  of  the  evening  meal.  "  Here,"  pre- 
senting a  tall  young  girl,  "is  our  eldest,  beginning  to  think 
herself  a  young  lady,  on  the  strength  of  being  fifteen  years 
old,  and  wearing  her  hair  tucked  up.  And  here  is  Eliza," 
said  he,  giving  a  pull  to  a  blooming,  roguish  girl  of  ten, 
with  large,  saucy  black  eyes.  "  And  here  is  Willie ! "  a 
bashful,  blushing  little  fellow  in  a  checked  apron.  "  And 
now,  where's  the  little  queen  ?  —  where's  her  majesty  ?  — 
where's  Ally?" 

A  golden  head  of  curls  was,  at  this  instant,  thrust  timidly 
in  at  the  door,  and  I  caught  a  passing  glimpse  of  a  pair  of 
great  blue  eyes;  but  the  head,  curls,  eyes,  and  all,  instantly 
vanished,  though  a  little  fat  dimpled  hand  was  seen  holding 
on  to  the  door,  .and  swinging  it  back  and  forward.  "Ally. 
dear,  come  in  ! "  said  the  mother,  in  a  tone  of  encouragement. 
"  Come  in,  Ally  !  come  in,"  was  repeated  in  various  tones,  by 
each  child  ;  but  brother  Tom  pushed  open  the  door,  and  taking 
the  little  recusant  in  his  arms,  brought  her  fairly  in,  and  de- 
posited her  on  her  father's  knee.  She  took  firm  hold  of  his 
coat,  and  then  turned  and  gazed  shyly  upon  me  —  her  large 
splendid  blue  eyes  gleaming  through  her  golden  curls.  It  was 
evident  that  this  was  the  pet  lamb  of  the  fold,  and  Bhe  was 
just  at  that  age  when  babyhood  is  verging  into  childhood — 
an  age  often  indefinitely  prolonged  in  a  large  family,  where 
the  universal  admiration  that  waits  on  every  look,  and  m< 


432  the  new-year's  gift. 

and  word  of  the  baby,  and  the  multiplied  monopolies  and 
privileges  of  the  baby  estate,  seem,  by  universal  consent,  to 
extend  as  long  and  as  far  as  possible.  And  why  not  thus 
delay  the  little  bark  of  the  child  among  the  flowery  shores  of 
its  first  Eden  ?  —  defer  them  as  we  may,  the  hard,  the  real,  the 
cold  commonplace  of  life  comes  on  all  too  soon  ! 

"  This  is  our  New  Year's  gift,"  said  Winthrop,  fondly  ca- 
ressing the  curly  head.  "  Ally,  tell  the  gentleman  how  old 
you  are." 

"  I  s'all  be  four  next  New  'Ear's,"  said  the  little  one,  while 
all  the  circle  looked  applause. 

"  Ally,  tell  the  gentleman  what  you  are,"  said  brother  Ned. 

Ally  looked  coquettishly  at  me,  as  if  she  did  not  know 
wli ether  she  should  favor  me  to  that  extent,  and  the  young 
princess  was  further  solicited. 

"  Tell  him  what  Ally  is,"  said  the  oldest  sister,  with  a  pat- 
ronizing air. 

"  Papa's  New  'Ear's  pesent,"  said  my  little  lady,  at  last. 

"  And  mamma's,  too  !  "  said  the  mother  gently,  amid  the 
applauses  of  the  admiring  circle. 

Winthrop  looked  apologetically  at  me,  and  said,  "  We  all 
spoil  her  —  that's  a  fact  —  every  one  of  us  down  to  Rover, 
there,  who  let's  her  tie  tippets  round  his  neck,  and  put  bonnets 
on  his  head,  and  hug  and  kiss  him,  to  a  degree  that  would  dis- 
concert any  other  dog  in  the  world." 

If  ever  beauty  and  poetic  grace  was  an  apology  for  spoil- 
ing, it  was  in  this  case.  Every  turn  of  the  bright  head, 
every  change  of  the  dimpled  face  and  round  and  chubby  limbs, 
was  a  picture  ;  and  within  the  little  form  was  shrined  a  heart 
full  of  love,  and  running  over  with  compassion  and  good  will 
for  every  breathing  thing;  with  feelings  so  sensitive,  that  it 


THE    NEW-YEARS    GIFT.  433 

was  papa's  delight  to  make  her  laugh  and  cry  with  stories,  and 
to  watch  in  the  blue,  earnest  mirror  of  her  eye  every  change 
and  turn  of  his  narration,  as  he  took  her  through  long  fairy 
tales,  and  old-fashioned  giant  and  ghost  legends,  purely  for  his 
own  amusement,  and  much  reprimanded  all  the  way  by  mam- 
ma, for  filling  the  child's  head  with  nonsense. 

It  was  now,  however,  time  to  turn  from  the  beauty  to  the 
substantial  realities  of  the  supper  table.  I  observed  that 
Ally's  high  chair  was  stationed  close  by  her  father's  side  ;  and 
ever  and  anon,  while  gayly  talking,  he  would  slip  into  her  rosy 
little  mouth  some  choice  bit  from  his  plate,  these  notices  and 
attentions  seeming  so  instinctive  and  habitual,  that  they  did 
not  for  a  moment  interrupt  the  thread  of  the  conversation. 
Once  or  twice  I  caught  a  glimpse  of  Rover's  great  rough  nose, 
turned  anxiously  up  to  the  little  chair;  whereat  the  small 
white  hand  forthwith  slid  something  into  his  mouth,  though 
by  what  dexterity  it  ever  came  out  from  the  great  black  jaws 
undevoured  was  a  mystery.  When  the  supply  of  meat  on 
the  small  lady's  plate  was  exhausted,  I  observed  the  little  hand 
slyly  slipping  into  her  father's  provision  grounds,  and  with  in- 
finite address  abstracting  small  morsels,  whereat  there  was 
much  mysterious  winking  between  the  father  and  the  other 
children,  and  considerable  tittering  among  the  younger  ones, 
though  all  in  marvellous  silence,  as  it  was  deemed  best  policy 
not  to  appear  to  notice  Ally's  tricks,  lest  they  should  become 
too  obstreperous. 

In  the  course  of  the  next  day  I  found  myself,  to  all  intents 
and  purposes,  as  much  part  and  parcel  of  the  family  as  if  1 
had  been  born  and  bred  among  them.  J  found  that  1  had 
come  in  a  critical  time,  when  secrets  were  plenty  as  i  lack- 
berries.  It  being  New  Year's  week,  all  the  little  hoarded 
'67 


431  THE    NEW-YEARS    GIFT. 

resources  of  the  children,  both  of  money  and  of  ingenuity, 
were  in  brisk  requisition,  getting  up  New  Year's  presents  for 
each  other,  and  for  father  and  mother.  The  boys  had  their 
little  tin  savings  banks,  where  all  the  stray  pennies  of  the  year 
had  been  carefully  hoarded  —  all  that  had  been  got  by  black- 
ing papa's  boots,  or  by  piling  wood,  or  .weeding  in  the  garden 
—  mingled  with  some  fortunate  additions  which  had  come  as 
windfalls  from  some  liberal  guest  or  friend.  All  now  were 
poured  out  daily,  on  tables,  on  chairs,  on  stools,  and  counted 
over  with  wonderful  earnestness. 

My  friend,  though  in  easy  circumstances,  was  somewhat 
old-fashioned  in  his  notions.  He  never  allowed  his  children 
spending  money,  except  such  as  they  fairly  .earned  by  some 
exertions  of  their  own.  "  Let  them  do  something,"  he  would 
say,  "  to  make  it  fairly  theirs,  and  their  generosity  will  then 
have  some  significance  — it  is  very  easy  for  children  to  be 
generous  on  their  parents'  money."  Great  were  the  compar- 
ing of  resources  and  estimates  of  property  at  this  time.  Tom 
and  Xed,  who  were  big  enough  to  saw  wood,  and  hoe  in  the 
garden,  had  accumulated  the  vast  sum  of  three  dollars  each, 
and  walked  about  with  their  hands  in  their  pockets,  and 
talked  largely  of  purchases,  like  gentlemen  of  substance. 
They  thought  of  getting  mamma  a  new  mult,  and  papa  a 
writing  desk,  besides  trinkets  innumerable  for  sisters,  and  a 
big  doll  for  Ally  ;  but  after  they  had  made  one  expedition  to 
a  neighboring  town  to  inquire  prices,  I  observed  that  their  ex- 
pectations were  greatly  moderated.  As  to  little  Willie,  him 
oi'  the  checked  apron,  his  whole  earthly  substance  amounted 
to  thirty-seven  cents  ;  yet  there  was  not  a  member  of  the  whole 
family  circle,  including  the  servants,  that  he  could  find  it  in  his 
heart  to  leave  out  of  hid  remembrance.     I  ingratiated  myself 


THE    NEW-YEAR'S    GIFT.  430 

With  him  immediately;  and  twenty  times  a  day  did  I  count 
over  his  money  to  him,  and  did  sums  innumerable  to  show 
how  much  would  be  leii  if  he  got  this,  that,  or  the  other  article, 
which  he  was  longing  to  buy  for  father  or  mother.  I  proved 
to  him  most  invaluable,  by  helping  him  to  think  of  certain 
small  sixpenny  and  fburpenny  articles  that  would  be  pretty  to 
give  to  sisters,  making  out  with  marbles  for  Tom  and  Ned, 
and  a  very  valiant-looking  sugar  horse  for  Ally.  Miss  Emma 
had  the  usual  resource  of  young  ladies,  flosses,  worsted,  and 
knitting,  and  crochet  needles,  and  busy  lingers,  and  she  was 
giving  private  lessons  daily  to  Eliza,  to  enable  her  to  get  up 
some  napkin  rings,  and  book  marks  for  the  all-important  occa- 
sion. A  gentle  air  of  bustle  and  mystery  pervaded  the  whole 
circle.  I  was  intrusted  with  so  many  secrets  that  I  could 
scarcely  make  an  observation,  or  take  a  turn  about  the  room, 
without  being  implored  to  "  remember  " —  "  not  to  tell "  —  not 
to  let  papa  know  this,  or  mamma  that.  I  was  not  to  let 
papa  know  how  the  boys  were  going  to  buy  him  a  new  ink- 
stand, with  a  pen  rack  upon  it,  which  was  entirely  to  outshine 
all  previous  inkstands  ;  nor  tell  mamma  about  the  crochet  bag 
that  Emma  was  knitting  for  her.  On  all  sides  were  mysteri- 
ous whisperings,  and  showing  of  things  wrapped  in  brown 
paper,  glimpses  of  which,  through  some  inadvertence,  were 
always  appearing  to  the  public  eye.  There  were  close  coun- 
sels held  behind  doors  and  in  corners,  and  suddenly  broken 
when  some  particular  member  of  the  family  appeared.  T] 
were  flutters  of  vanishing  book  marks,  which  were  always 
whisked  away  when  a  door  opened  ;  and  incessant  ejaculal 
of  admiration  and  astonishment  from  one  privileged  looker  or 
another  on  things  which  might  not  be  mentioned  to  or  beheld 
by  others. 


4;)G 

Papa  and  mamma  behaved  with  the  utmost  circumspection 
and  discretion,  and  though  surrounded  on  all  sides  by  such 
pitfalls  and  labyrinths  of  mystery,  moved  about  with  an  air 
of  the  most  unconscious  simplicity  possible. 

But  little  Ally,  from  her  privileged  character,  became  a  very 
spoil-sport  in  the  proceedings.  Her  small  lingers  were  always 
pulling  open  parcels  prematurely,  or  lifting  pocket  handker- 
chiefs ingeniously  thrown  down  over  mysterious  articles,  and 
thus  disconcerting  the  very  profoundest  surprises  that  ever 
were  planned ;  and  were  it  not  that  she  was  still  within  the 
bounds  of  the  kingly  state  of  babyhood,  and  therefore  could 
be  held  to  do  no  wrong,  she  would  certainly  have  fallen  into 
general  disgrace ;  but  then  it  was  "  Ally,"  and  that  was 
apology  for  all  things,  and  the  exploit  was  related  in  half 
whispers  as  so  funny,  so  cunning,  that  Miss  Curlypate  was  in 
nowise  disconcerted  at  the  head  shakes  and  "naughty  AHys*' 
that  visited  her  offences. 

•f  What  dis  ?  "  said  she,  one  morning,  as  she  was  rummaging 
over  some  packages  indiscreetly  left  on  the  sofa. 

"  O  Emma  !  see  Ally  !  "  exclaimed  Eliza,  darting  forward ; 
but  too  late,  for  the  flaxen  curls  and  blue  eyes  of  a  wax  doll 
had  already  appeared. 

"  Now  she'll  know  all  about  it,"  said  Eliza,  despairingly. 

Ally  looked  in  astonishment,  as  dolly's  visage  promptly 
disappeared  from  her  view,  and  then  turned  to  pursue  her 
business  in  another  quarter  of  the  room,  where,  spying  some- 
thing glittering  under  the  sofa,  she  forthwith  pulled  out  and 
held  up  to  public  view  a  crochet  bag  sparkling  with,  innumer- 
able  steel  fringes. 

"  O,  what  be  dis  ! "  she  exclaimed  again. 

Emma  sprang  to  the  rescue,  while  all  the  other  chil- 


THE    NEW-YEAR'S    GIFT.  437 

dren,  with  a  burst  of  exclamations,  turned  their  eyes  on  mam- 
ma. Mamma  very  prudently  did  not  turn  her  head,  and 
appeared  to  be  lost  in  reflection,  though  she  must  have  been 
quite  deaf  not  to  have  heard  the  loud  whispers  —  "It's  mam- 
ma's bag!  only  think!  Don't  you  think,  Tom,  Ally  pulled 
out  mamma's  bag,  and  held  it  right  up  before  her  !  Don't  you 
think  she'll  find  out  ?  " 

Master  Tom  valued  himself  greatly  on  the   original  and 
profound  ways  he  had  of  adapting  his  presents  to  the  tastes 
of  the  receiver  without  exciting  suspicion :  for  example,  he 
would  come  up  into  his  mother's  room,  all  booted  and  coated 
for  a  ride  to  town,  jingling  his  purse  gleefully,  and  begin,  — 
"  Mother,  mother,  which  do  you  like  best,  pink  or  blue  ?  " 
"  That  might  depend  on  circumstances,  my  son." 
"  Well,  but,  mother,  for  a  neck  ribbon,  for  example ;  sup- 
pose somebody  was  going  to  buy  you  a  neck  ribbon." 

"  Why,  blue  would  be  the  most  suitable  for  me,  I  think." 
"  Well,  but  mother,  which  should  you  think  was  the  best, 
a  neck  ribbon  or  a  book  ?  " 

"  What  book  ?     It  would  depend  something  on  that." 
"Why,  as  good  a  book  as  a  fellow  could  get  for  thirty- 
seven  cents,"  says  Tom. 

"  Well,  on  the  whole,  I  think  I  should  prefer  the  ribbon." 
"  There,  Ned,"  says  Tom,  coming  down  the  stair.-.  "  I've 
found  out  just  what  mother  wants,  without  telling  her  a  word 

about  it." 

But  the  crowning  mystery  of  all  the  great  family  arcana, 
the  thing  that  was  going  to  astonish  papa  and  mamma  pasl  all 
recovery,  was  certain  projected  book  marks,  that  little  Ally 
was  going  to  be  made  to  work  for  them.  This  held  scheme 
was  projected  by  Miss  Emma,  and  she  had  armed  herself 
37* 


(.38  the  new-year's  gift. 

with  a  whole  paper  of  sugar  plums,  to  be  used  as  adjuvants 
to  moral  influence,  in  case  the  discouragements  of  the  under- 
taking should  prove  too  much  for  Ally's  patience. 

As  to  Ally,  she  felt  all  the  dignity  of  the  enterprise  —  her 
whole  little  soul  was  absorbed  in  it.  Seated  on  Emma's  knee, 
with  the  needle  between  her  little  fat  fingers,  and  holding  the 
board  very  tight,  as  if  she  was  afraid  it  would  run  away  from 
her,  she  very  gravely  and  carefully  stuck  the  needle  in  every 
place  but  the  right  —  pricked  her  pretty  fingers  —  ate  sugar 
plums  —  stopping  now  to  pat  Rover,  and  now  to  stroke  pussy 
—  letting  fall  her  thimble,  and  bustling  down  to  pick  it  up  — 
occasionally  taking  an  episodical  race  round  the  room  with 
Rover,  during  which  time  Sister  Emma  added  a  stitch  or  two 
to  the  work. 

I  would  not  wish  to  have  been  required,  on  oath,  to  give  in 
my  undisguised  opinion  as  to  the  number  of  stitches  the  little 
one  really  put  into  her  present,  but  she  had  a  most  genuine  and 
firm  conviction  that  she  worked  every  stitch  of  it  herself;  and 
when,  on  returning  from  a  scamper  with  pussy,  she  found  one 
or  two  letters  finished,  she  never  doubted  that  the  whole  was 
of  her  own  execution,  and,  of  course,  thought  that  working 
book  marks  was  one  of  the  most  delightful  occupations  in  the 
v  orlcL  1 1  was  all  that  her  little  heart  could  do  to  keep  from 
papa  and  mamma  the  wonderful  secret.  Every  evening  she 
would  bustle  about  her  father  with  an  air  of  such  great  mys- 
tery, and  seek  to  pique  his  curiosity  by  most  skilful  hints, 
h  as,  — 

"  1  know  somefing  !  but  I  s'ant  tell  you." 
"  Not  tell  me  !     O  Ally  !     Why  not  ?  " 

"0,  it's  about  — a  New  'Ear's  pes " 

"Ally,  Ally,"  resounds   from    several   voices,  "don't   you 
tell." 


the  new-year's  gift.  439 

"  No,  I  s'ant  —  but  you  are  going  to  have  a  New  'Ear's  pes- 
ant,  and  so  is  mamma,  and  you  can't  dess  what  it  is." 

"  Can't  I  ?  " 

"  No,  and  I  s'ant  tell  you." 

"  Now,  Ally,"  said  papa,  pretending  to  look  aggrieved. 

"  Well,  it's  going  to  be  —  somefin  worked." 

"  Ally,  be  careful,"  said  Emma. 

"Yes,  I'll  be  very  tareful ;  it's  somefin  —  weall  pretty  — 
somefin  to  put  in  a  book.     You'll  find  out  about  it  by  and 

V 

"  I  think  I'm  in  a  fair  way  to,"  said  the  father. 
The  conversation  now  digressed  to  other  subjects,  and  the 
nurse  came  in  to  take  Ally  to  bed ;  who,  as  she  kissed  her 
father,  in  the  fulness  of  her  heart,  added  a  fresh  burst  of  in- 
formation. "Papa,"  said  she,  in  an  earnest  whisper,  "that 
Jin  is  about  so  long"  —  measuring  on  her  fat  little  arm. 

"  A  Jin,  Ally  ?  Why,  you  are  not  going  to  give  me  a  fish, 
are  you  ?  " 

"  I  mean  that  thing?  said  Ally,  speaking  the  word  with 
great  effort,  and  getting  quite  red  in  the  face. 

"0,  that  thing;  I  beg  pardon,  my  lady  ;  that  puts  another 
face  on  the  communication,"  said  the  father,  stroking  her  head 
fondly,  as  lie  bade  her  good  night. 

"The  child  can  talk  plainer  than  she  dors,"  said  the  father, 
"Jmt  we  are  all  so  delighted  with  her  little  Hottentot  dialect, 
that  I  don't  know  but  she  will  keep  it  up  till  she  is  twenty." 
***** 
It  now  wanted  only  three  days  of  the  New  Year,  when  a 
sudden  and  deadly  shadow  fell  on  the  dwelling,  late  so  busy 
and  joyous  — a  shadow  from  the  grave;  and  it  fell  on  the 
flower  of  the  garden  —  the  star  —  the  singing  bird  —  the  Loved 
and  loving  Ally. 


440  THE    NEW-YEAR  S    GIFT. 

She  was  stricken  down  at  once,  in  the  flush  of  her  innocent 
enjoyment,  by  a  fever,  which  from  the  first  was  ushered  in 
with  symptoms  the  most  fearful. 

All  the  bustle  of  preparation  ceased  —  the  presents  were 
forgotten  or  lay  about  unfinished,  as  if  no  one  now  had  a  heart 
to  put  their  hand  to  any  thing;  while  up  in  her  little  crib  lay 
the  beloved  one,  tossing  and  burning  with  restless  fever,  and 
without  power  to  recognize  any  of  the  loved  faces  that  bent 
over  her. 

The  doctor  came  twice  a  day,  with  a  heavy  step,  and  a  face 
in  which  anxious  care  was  too  plainly  written ;  and  while  he 
was  there  each  member  of  the  circle  hung  with  anxious,  im- 
ploring faces  about  him,  as  if  to  entreat  him  to  save  their 
darling  ;  but  still  the  deadly  disease  held  on  its  relentless 
course,  in  spite  of  all  that  could  be  done. 

"  I  thought  myself  prepared  to  meet  God's  will  in  any  form 
it  might  come,"  said  Winthrop  to  me  ;  "  but  this  one  thing  I 
had  forgotten.  It  never  entered  into  my  head  that  my  little 
Ally  could  die." 

The  evening  before  New  Year's,  the  deadly  disease  seemed 
to  be  progressing  more  rapidly  than  ever ;  and  when  the  doc- 
tor came  for  his  evening  call,  he  found  all  the  family  gathered 
in  mournful  stillness  around  the  little  crib. 

"  I  suppose,"  -aid  the  father,  with  an  effort  to  speak  calmly, 
"  that  this  may  be  her  last  night  with  us." 

The  doctor  made  no  answer,  and  the  whole  circle  of 
brothers  and  sisters  broke  out  into  bitter  weeping. 

"  It  is  just  possible  that  she  may  live  till  to-morrow,"  said 
the  doctor. 

"  To-morrow  —  her  birthday  ! "  said  the  mother.  "  0  Ally, 
Ally ! " 


THE    NEW-YEAlt's    GIFT.  441 

Wearily  passed  tlie  watches  of  that  night.  Each  brother 
and  sister  had  kissed  the  pale  little  cheek,  to  bid  farewell,  and 
gone  to  their  rooms,  to  sob  themselves  to  sleep  ;  and  the  father 
and  mother  and  doctor  alone  watched  around  the  bed.  0, 
what  a  watch  is  that  which  despairing  love  keeps,  waiting  for 
death  !  Poor  Rover,  the  companion  of  Ally's  gayer  hours, 
resolutely  refused  to  be  excluded  from  the  sick  chamber. 
Stretched  under  the  little  crib,  he  watched  with  unsleeping  eyes 
every  motion  of  the  attendants,  and  as  often  as  they  rose  to  ad- 
minister medicine,  or  change  the  pillow,  or  bathe  the  head,  he 
would  rise  also,  and  look  anxiously  over  the  side  of  the  crib, 
as  if  he  understood  all  that  was  jKissing. 

About  an  hour  past  midnight,  the  child  began  to  change ; 
her  moans  became  fainter  and  fainter,  her  restless"  move- 
ments ceased,  and  a  deep  and  heavy  sleep  settled  upon  her. 

The  parents  looked  wistfully  on  the  doctor.  "  It  is  the  last 
change,"  he  said ;  "  she  will  probably  pass  away  before  the 
daybreak." 

Heavier  and  deeper  grew  that  sleep,  and  to  the  eye  of  the 
anxious  watchers  the  little  face  grew  paler  and  paler ;  yet 
by  degrees  the  breathing  became  regular  and  easy,  and  a 
gentle  moisture  began  to  diffuse  itself  over  the  whole  surface. 
A  new  hope  began  to  dawn  on  the  minds  of  the  parents,  as 
they  pointed  out  these  symptoms  to  the  doctor. 

"All  things  are  possible  with  God,"  said  he,  in  answer  to 
the  inquiring  looks  he  met,  "and  it  may  be  that  she  will  yet 
live." 

An  hour  more  passed,  and  the  rosy  glow  of  the  New  Year's 
morning  began  to  blush  over  the  snowy  whiteness  of  tin- 
landscape.  Far  off  from  the  window  could  be  ^'f\i  the  kin- 
dling glow  of  a  glorious  sunrise,  looking  all  the  brighter  lor 


442  tiie  new-year's  gift. 

the  dark  pines  that  half  veiled  it  from  view;  and  now  a 
straight  and  glittering  beam  shot  from  the  east  into  the  still 
chamber.  It  fell  on  the  golden  hair  and  pale  brow  of  the 
child,  lighting  it  up  as  if  an  angel  had  smiled  on  it ;  and 
slowly  the  large  blue  eyes  unclosed,  and  gazed  dreamily 
around. 

"  Ally,  Ally,"  said  the  father,  bending  over  her,  trembling 
with  excitement. 

"  You  are  going  to  have  a  New  'Ear's  pesent,"  whispered 
the  little  one,  faintly  smiling. 

"  I  believe  from  my  heart  that  you  are,  sir !  "  said  the  doc- 
tor, who  stood  with  his  fingers  on  her  pulse  ;  "  she  has  passed 
through  the  crisis  of  the  disease,  and  we  may  hope." 

A  few  hours  turned  this  hope  to  glad  certainty ;  for  with 
the  elastic  rapidity  of  infant  life,  the  signs  of  returning  vigor 
began  to  multiply,  and  ere  evening  the  little  one  was  lying  in 
her  father's  arms,  answering  with  languid  smiles  to  the  over- 
flowing proofs  of  tenderness  which  every  member  of  the 
family  was  showering  upon  her. 

"  See,  my  children,"  said  the  father  gently,  "  this  dear  one 
is  our  New  Year's  present.  What  can  we  render  to  God  in 
return  ?  " 


THE  OLD  OAK  OF  ANDOVEli 


A   REVERY. 


Silently,  with  dreamy  languor,  the  fleecy  snow  is  falling. 
Through  the  windows,  flowery  with  blossoming  geranium  and 
heliotrope,  through  the  downward  sweep  of  crimson  and  mus- 
lin curtain,  one  watches  it  as  the  wind  whirls  and  sways  it  in 
swift  eddies. 

Right  opposite  our  house,  on  our  Mount  Clear,  is  an  old 
oak,  the  apostle  of  the  primeval  forest.  Once,  when  this 
place  was  all  wildwood,  the  man  who  was  seeking  a  spot  for 
the  location  of  the  buildings  of  Phillips  Academy  climbed  this 
oak,  using  it  as  a  sort  of  green  watchtower,  from  whence  he 
might  gain  a  view  of  the  surrounding  country.  Age  and 
time,  since  then,  have  dealt  hardly  with  the  stanch  old  i; 
His  limbs  have  been  here  and  there  shattered  ;  his  l>a  k 
begins  to  look  mossy  and  dilapidated;  but  after  all,  tin.  • 
is  a  piquant,  decided  air  about  him,  that  speaks  the  old 
of  a  tree  of  distinction,  a  kingly  oak.  To-day  I  Bee  him 
standing,  dimly  revealed  through  the  mist  of  falling  .now-  ; 
to-morrow's  sun  will  show  the  outline  of  his  gnarled  limb  — 
all  rose  color  with   their  soft  .-now  burden;  and  again  a 

C443) 


444  THE    OLD    OAK    OF    ANDOVER. 

months,  and  spring  will  breathe  on  him,  and  he  will  draw  a 
long  breath,  and  break  out  once  more,  for  the  three  hundredth 
time,  perhaps,  into  a  vernal  crown  of  leaves.  I  sometimes 
think  that  leaves  are  the  thoughts  of  trees,  and  that  if  we 
only  knew  it,  we  should  find  their  life's  experience  recorded 
in  them.  Our  oak  !  what-  a  crop  of  meditations  and  remem- 
brances must  he  have  thrown  forth,  leafing  out  century  after 
century.  Awhile  he  spake  and  thought  only  of  red  deer  and 
Indians ;  of  the  trillium  that  opened  its  white  triangle  in  his 
shade ;  of  the  scented  arbutus,  fair  as  the  pink  ocean  shell, 
weaving  her  fragrant  mats  in  the  moss  at  his  feet ;  of  feathery 
ferns,  casting  their  silent  shadows  on  the  checkerberry  leaves, 
and  all  those  sweet,  wild,  nameless,  half-mossy  things,  that 
live  in  the  gloom  of  forests,  and  are  only  desecrated  when 
brought  to  scientific  light,  laid  out  and  stretched  on  a  botanic 
bier.  Sweet  old  forest  days  !  —  when  blue  jay,  and  yellow 
hammer,  and  bobalink  made  his  leaves  merry,  and  summer  was 
a  long  opera  of  such  music  as  Mozart  dimly  dreamed.  But 
then  came  human  kind  bustling  beneath ;  wondering,  fussing, 
exploring,  measuring,  treading  down  flowers,  cutting  down 
trees,  scaring  bobalinks  —  and  Andover,  as  men  say,  began 
to  be  settled. 

Stanch  men  were  they  —  these  Puritan  fathers  of  Ando- 
ver. The  old  oak  must  have  felt  them  something  akin  to  him- 
self. Such  strong,  wrestling  limbs  had  they,  so  gnarled  and 
knotted  were  they,  yet  so  outbursting  with  a  green  and  vernal 
crown,  yearly  springing,  of  noble  and  generous  thoughts,  rus- 
tling with  leaves  which  shall  be  for  the  healing  of  nations. 

These  m<  a  w<  re  content  with  the  hard,  dry  crust  for  them- 
selves, that  they  might  sow  seeds  of  abundant  food  for  us, 
their  children;  men  out  of  whose   hardness  in   enduring  we 


THE    OLD    OAK    OF   ANDOVER.  445 

gain  leisure  to  be  soft  and  graceful,  through  whose  poverty  we 
have  become  rich.  Like  Moses,  they  had  for  their  portion 
only  the  pain  and  weariness  of  the  wilderness,  leaving  to  us 
the  fruition  of  the  promised  land.  Let  us  cherish  for  their 
sake  the  old  oak,  beautiful  in  its  age  as  the  broken  statue  of 
some  antique  wrestler,  brown  with  time,  yet  glorious  in  its 
suggestion  of  past  achievement. 

I  think  all  this  the  more  that  I  have  recently  come 
across  the  following  passage  in  one  of  our  religious  papers. 
The  writer  expresses  a  kind  of  sentiment  which  one  meets 
very  often  upon  this  subject,  and  leads  one  to  wonder  what 
glamour  could  have  fallen  on  the  minds  of  any  of  the  descend- 
ants of  the  Puritans,  that  they  should  cast  nettles  on  those  hon 
ored  graves  where  they  should  be  proud  to  cast  their  laurels. 

"  It  is  hard,"  he  says,  "  for  a  lover  of  the  beautiful  —  not  a 
mere  lover,  but  a  believer  in  its  divinity  also  —  to  forgive  the 
Puritans,  or  to  think  charitably  of  them.  It  is  hard  fur  him 
to  keep  Forefathers'  Day,  or  to  subscribe  to  the  Plymouth 
Monument ;  hard  to  look  fairly  at  what  they  did,  with  the 
memory  of  what  they  destroyed  ri>ing  up  to  choke  thank- 
fulness;  for  they  were  as  one-sided  and  narrow-minded  a 
set  of  men  as  ever  lived,  and  saw  one  of  Truth's  faces  only 
—  the  hard,  stern,  practical  face,  without  loveliness,  withoul 
beauty,  and  only  half  dear  to  God.  The  Puritan  flew  in  the 
face  of  facts,  not  because  he  saw  them  and  disliked  them,  but 
because  he  did  not  see  them.  lie  saw  foolishness,  lying, 
stealing,  worldliness  —  the  very  mammon  of  unrighteousnes 
rioting  in  the  world  and  bearing  sway  —  and  he  ran  lull  tilt 
against  the  monster,  hating  it  with  a  very  mortal  and  mundane 
hatred,  and  anxious  to  see  it  bite  the  dust  that  his  own  horn 
might  be  exalted.  It  was  in  truth  only  another  horn  of  the 
38 


446  THE    OLD    OAK    OF    ANDOVER. 

old  dilemma,  tossing  and  goring  grace  and  beauty,  and  all  Ci 
loveliness  of  life,  as  if  they  were  the  enemies  instead  of  the 
sure  friends  of  God  and  man." 

Now,  to  those  who  say  this  we  must  ask  the  question  with 
which  Socrates  of  old  pursued  the  sophist :  What  is  beauty  ? 
If  beauty  be  only  physical,  if  it  appeal  only  to  the  senses,  if 
it  be  only  an  enchantment  of  graceful  forms,  sweet  sounds, 
then  indeed  there  might  be  something  of  truth  in  this 
sweeping  declaration  that  the  Puritan  spirit  is  the  enemy 
of  beauty. 

The  very  root  and  foundation  of  all  artistic  inquiry  lies 
here.  What  is  beauty  ?  And  to  this  question  God  forbid  that 
we  Christians  should  give  a  narrower  answer  than  Plato  gave 
in  the  old  times  before  Christ  arose,  for  he  directs  the  aspirant 
who  would  discover  the  beautiful  to  "  consider  of  great»  r 
value  the  beauty  existing  in  the  soul,  than  that  existing  in  the 
body."  More  gracefully  he  teaches  the  fame  doctrine  when 
he  tells  us  that  "  there  are  two  kinds  of  Venus,  (beauty ;)  the 
one,  the  elder,  who  had  no  mother,  and  was  the  daughter  of 
Uranus,  (heaven,)  whom  we  name  the  celestial ;  the  other, 
younger,  daughter  of  Jupiter  and  Dione,  whom  we  call  the 
vulgar." 

Now,  if  disinterestedness,  faith,  patience,  piety,  have  a 
beauty  celestial  and  divine,  then  were  our  fathers  worshippers 
of  the  beautiful.  If  high-mindedness  and  spotless  honor  are 
beautiful  things,  they  had  those.  What  work  of  art  can 
pare  with  a  lofty  and  heroic  life?  Is  it  not  better  to  be 
a  Moses  than  to  be  a  Michael  Angelo  making  statues  of 
Moses  ?  Is  not  the  fife  of  Paul  a  sublimer  work  of  art  than 
Raphael's  cartoons?  Are  not  the  patience,  the  faith,  the 
undying    love    of   Mary  by  the  cross,    more  beautiful    than 


THE    OLD    OAK    OF   ANDOVER.  447 

all  the  Madonna  paintings  in  the  world.  If,  then,  we 
would  speak  truly  of  our  fathers,  we  should  say  that,  having 
their  minds  fixed  on  that  celestial  beauty  of  which  Plato 
speaks,  they  held  in  slight  esteem  that  more  common  and 
earthly. 

Should  we  continue  the  parable  in  Plato's  manner,  we 
might  say  that  the  earthly  and  visible  Venus,  the  outward 
grace  of  art  and  nature,  was  ordained  of  God  as  a  priestess, 
through  whom  men  were  to  gain  access  to  the  divine,  invisible 
One  ;  but  that  men,  in  their  blindness,  ever  worship  the  priest- 
ess instead  of  the  divinity. 

Therefore  it  is  that  great  reformers  so  often  must  break  the 
shrines  and  temples  of  the  physical  and  earthly  beauty,  when 
they  seek  to  draw  men  upward  to  that  which  is  high  and 
divine. 

Christ  says  of  John  the  Baptist,  "  What  went  ye  out  for  to 
see  ?  A  man  clothed  in  soft  raiment  ?  Behold  they  which  are 
clothed  in  soft  raiment  are  in  kings'  palaces."  So  was  it 
when  our  fathers  came  here.  There  were  enough  wearing 
soft  raiment  and  dwelling  in  kings'  palaces.  Life  in  papal 
Rome  and  prelatic  England  was  weighed  down  with  blossom- 
ing luxury.  There  were  abundance  of  people  to  think  of 
pictures,  and  statues,  and  gems,  and  cameos,  vases  and  marbles, 
and  all  manner  of  deliciousness.  The  world  was  all  drunk 
with  the  enchantments  of  the  lower  Venus,  and  it  was  needful 
that  these  men  should  come,  Baptist-like  in  the  wilderness,  in 
raiment  of  camel's  hair.  AVe  need  such  men  now.  Art,  they 
tell  us,  is  waking  in  America;  a  love  of  the  beautiful  is  be- 
ginning to  unfold  its  wings;  but  what  kind  of  art,  and  what 
kind  of  beauty?     Are  we  to  till  our  houses  with  pictures  ami 


4-18  THE    OLD    OAK    OF    AND  OVER. 

gems,  and  to  see  that  even  our  drinking  cup  and  vase  is 
wrought  in  graceful  pattern,  and  to  lose  our  reverence  for 
self-denial,  honor,  and  faith  ? 

Is  our  Venus  to   be  the  frail,  insnaring  Aphrodite,  or  the 
starry,  divine  Urania? 


OUR  WOOD  LOT  IN  WINTER 


Our  wood  lot !  Yes,  we  have  arrived  at  the  dignity  of  own- 
ing a  wood  lot,  and  for  us  simple  folk  there  is  something  in- 
vigorating in  the  thought.  To  own  even  a  small  spot  of  our 
dear  old  mother  earth  hath  in  it  a  relish  of  something  stimulat- 
ing to  human  nature.  To  own  a  meadow,  with  all  its  thousand- 
fold fringes  of  grasses,  its  broidery  of  monthly  flowers,  and  its 
outriders  of  birds,  and  bees,  and  gold- winged  insects  —  this  is 
something  that  establishes  one's  heart.  To  own  a  clover  patch  or 
a  buckwheat  field  is  like  possessing  a  self-moving  manufactory 
for  perfumes  and  sweetness ;  but  a  wood  lot,  rustling  with 
dignified  old  trees  —  it  makes  a  man  rise  in  his  own  esteem ; 
he  might  take  off  his  hat  to  himself  at  the  moment  of  acquisition. 

We  do  not  marvel  that  the  land-acquiring  passion  becomes 
a  mania  among  our  farmers,  and  particularly  we  do  not  bun- 
der at  a  passion  for  wood  land.  That  wide,  deep  chasm  of 
conscious  self-poverty  and  emptiness  which  lies  at  the  bottom 
of  every  human  heart,  making  men  crave  property  as  some- 
thing to  add  to  one's  own  bareness,  and  to  ballast  one's  own 
specific  levity,  is  sooner  filled  by  land  than  any  thing  else. 

Your  hoary  New  England  farmer  walks  over  his  acres  with 
a  grim  satisfaction.     He  sets  his  foot  down  with  a  hard  stamp  ; 
38  *  C«0) 


450  OUR    WOOD    LOT    IN    WINTER. 

here  is  reality.  No  moonshine  bank  stock !  no  swindling  rail- 
roads !  Here  is  his  bank,  and  there  is  no  defaulter  here.  All 
is  true,  solid,  and  satisfactory ;  he  seems  anchored  to  this  life 
by  it.  So  Pope,  with  fine  tact,  makes  the  old  miser,  making 
his  will  on  his  death  bed,  after  parting  with  every  thing,  die, 
clinging  to  the  possession  of  his  land.  He  disposes  with 
many  a  groan  of  this  and  that  house,  and  this  and  that  stock 
and  security ;  but  at  last  the  manor  is  proposed  to  him. 

"  The  manor !  hold  !  "  he  cried, 
"  Not  that ;  I  cannot  part  with  that !"  —  and  died ! 

In  such  terms  we  discoursed  yesterday,  Herr  Professor  and 
myself,  while  jogging  along  in  an  old-fashioned  chaise  to  in- 
spect a  few  acres  of  wood  lot,  the  acquisition  of  winch  had 
let  us,  with  great  freshness,  into  these  reflections. 

Does  any  fair  lady  shiver  at  the  idea  of  a  drive  to  the 
woods  on  the  first  of  February  ?  Let  me  assure  her  that  in 
the  coldest  season  Nature  never  wants  her  ornaments  full 
worth  looking  at. 

See  here,  for  instance  —  let  us  stop  the  old  chaise,  and  get 
out  a  minute  to  look  at  this  brook  —  one  of  our  last  summer's 
pets.  What  is  he  doing  this  winter  ?  Let  us  at  least  say,  "  How 
do  you  do  ?  "  to  him.  Ah,  here  he  is  !  and  he  and  Jack  Frost 
together  have  been  turning  the  little  gap  in  the  old  stone  wall, 
through  which  he  leaped  down  to  the  road,  into  a  little  grotto 
of  Antiparos.  Some  old  rough  rails  and  boards  that  dropped 
over  it  are  sheathed  in  plates  of  transparent  silver.  The 
trunks  of  the  black  alders  are  mailed  with  crystal;  and  the 
witch-hazel,  and  yellow  osiers  fringing  its  sedgy  borders,  are 
likewise  shining  through  their  glossy  covering.  Around  every 
stem  that  rises  from  the  water  is  a  glittering  ring  of  ice.     The 


OUR    WOOD    LOT    IN    WINTER.  451 

tags  of  the  alder  and  the  red  berries  of  last  summer's  wild 
-roses  glitter  now  like  a  lady's  pendant.  As  for  the  brook,  he 
is  wide  awake  and  joyful;  and  where  the  roof  of  sheet  ice 
breaks  away,  you  can  see  his  yellow-brown  waters  rattling  and 
gurgling  among  the  stones  as  briskly  as  they  did  last  July. 
Down  he  springs  !  over  the  glossy-coated  stone  wall,  throwing 
new  sparkles  into  the  fairy  grotto  around  him ;  and  widening 
daily  from  melting  snows,  and  such  other  godsends,  he  goes 
chattering  off  under  yonder  mossy  stone  bridge,  and  we  lose 
sight  of  him.  It  might  be  fancy,  but  it  seemed  that  our 
watery  friend  tipped  us  a  cheery  wink  as  lie  passed,  saying, 
"  Fine  weather,  sir  and  madam  ;  nice  times  these;  and  in  April 
you'll  find  us  all  right;  the  flowers  are  making  up  their  finery 
for  the  next  season ;  there's  to  be  a  splendid  display  in  a  month 
or  two." 

Then  the  cloud  lights  of  a  wintry  sky  have  a  clear  purity 
and  brilliancy  that  no  other  months  can  rival.  The  rose  tints, 
and  the  shading  of  rose  tint  into  gold,  the  flossy,  filmy  accu- 
mulation of  illuminated  vapor  that  drifts  across  the  sky  in  a 
January  afternoon,  are  beauties  far  exceeding  those  of  sum- 
mer. 

Neither  are  trees,  as  seen  in  winter,  destitute  of  their  own 
peculiar  beauty.  If  it  be  a  gorgeous  study  in  summer  time  to 
watch  the  play  of  their  abundant  leafage,  we  still  may  thank 
winter  for  laying  bare  before  us  the  grand  and  beautiful  anat- 
omy of  the  tree,  with  all  its  interlacing  network  of  boughs, 
knotted  on  each  twig  with  the  buds  of  next  year's  promise. 
The  fleecy  and  rosy  clouds  look  all  the  more  beautiful  through 
the  dark  lace  veil  of  yonder  magnificent  elm- ;  ami  the  down- 
drooping  drapery  of  yonder  willow  hath  its  own  grace  of  out- 
line   as    it  sweeps  the  bare  snows.     And    these  comical    old 


452  OUR    WOOD    LOT    IN    WINTER. 

apple  trees,  why,  in  summer  they  look  like  so  many  plump, 
green  cushions,  one  as  much  like  another  as  possible ;  but  un- 
der the  revealing  light  of  winter  every  characteristic  twist  and 
jerk  stands  disclosed. 

One  might  moralize  on  this  —  how  affliction,  which  strips  us 
of  all  ornaments  and  accessories,  and  brings  us  down  to  the  per- 
manent and  solid  wood  of  our  nature,  develops  such  wide  dif- 
ferences in  people  who  before  seemed  not  much  distinct. 

But  here  !  our  pony's  feet  are  now  clinking  on  the  icy  path 
under  the  shadow  of  the  white  pines  of  "  our  wood  lot."  The 
path  runs  in  a  deep  hollow,  and  on  either  hand  rise  slopes  dark 
and  sheltered  with  the  fragrant  white  pine.  White  pines  are 
favorites  with  us  for  many  good  reasons.  We  love  their  bal- 
samic breath,  the  long,  slender  needles  of  their  leaves,  and, 
above  all,  the  constant  sibylline  whisperings  that  never  cease 
among  their  branches.  In  summer  the  ground  beneath  them 
is  paved  with  a  soft  and  cleanly  matting  of  their  last  year's 
leaves ;  and  then  their  talking  seems  to  be  of  coolness  ever 
dwelling  far  up  in  their  fringy,  waving  hollows.  And  now,  in 
winter  time,  we  find  the  same  smooth  floor ;  for  the  heavy  cur- 
tains above  shut  out  the  snow,  and  the  same  voices  above  whis- 
per of  shelter  and  quiet.  "  You  are  welcome,"  they  say  ;  "  the 
north  wind  is  gone  to  sleep  ;  we  are  rocking  him  in  our  cra- 
dles. Sit  down  and  be  quiet  from  the  cold."  At  the  feet  of 
these  slumberous  old  pines  we  find  many  of  our  last  summer's 
friends  looking  as  good  as  new.  The  small,  round-leafed  par- 
tridgeberry  weaves  its  viny  mat,  and  lays  out  its  scarlet  fruit ; 
and  here  are  blackberry  vines  with  leaves  still  green,  though 
with  a  bluish  tint,  not  unlike  what  invades  mortal  noses  in 
such  weather.  Here,  too,  are  the  bright,  varnished  leaves  of 
the  Indian  pine,  and  the  vines  of  feathery  green  of  which  our 


OUR    WOOD    LOT    IN    WINTER.  453 

Christmas  garlands  are  made  ;  and  here,  undaunted,  though  fro- 
zen to  the  very  heart  this  cold  day,  is  many  another  leafy  thing 
which  we  met  last  summer  rejoicing  each  in  its  own  peculiar 
flower.  What  names  they  have  received  from  scientiiie  god- 
fathers at  the  botanic  fount  we  know  not ;  we  have  always 
known  them  by  fairy  nicknames  of  our  own  —  the  pet  names 
of  endearment  which  lie  between  Nature's  children  and  us  in 
her  domestic  circle. 

There  is  something  peculiarly  sweet  to  us  about  a  certain 
mystical  dreaminess  and  obscurity  in  these  wild  wood  tribes, 
which  we  never  wish  to  have  brought  out  into  the  daylight  of 
absolute  knowledge.  Everyone  of  them  was  a  self-discovered 
treasure  of  our  childhood,  as  much  our  own  as  if  God  had 
made  it  on  purpose  and  presented  it ;  and  it  was  ever  a  part 
of  the  joy  to  think  we  had  found  something  that  no  one 
knew,  and  so  musing  on  them,  we  gave  them  names  in  our 
heart. 

We  search  about  amid  the  sere,  yellow  skeletons  of  last 
summer's  ferns,  if  haply  winter  have  forgotten  one  green 
for  our  home  vase  —  in  vain  we  rake,  freezing  our  fingers 
through  our  fur  gloves  —  there  is  not  one.  An  icicle  has 
pierced  every  heart;  and  there  are  no  fern  leavesexcepl  those 
miniature  ones  which  each  plant  is  holding  in  its  heart,  to  be 
sent  up  in  next  summer's  hour  of  joy.  But  here  are  m 
—  tufts  of  all  sorts;  the  white,  crisp  and  crumbling,  fair  as 
winter  frostwork;  and  here  the  feathery  green  of  which 
French  milliners  make  moss  rose  buds;  and  here  the  cup- 
moss  —  these  we  gather  with  some  care,  frozen  as  tiny  are 
to  the  wintry  earth. 

Now,  stumbling  up  this  ridge,  we  come  t>>  a  little  patch  "i 
hemlocks,  spreading  out  their  green  wings,  and  making,  in  the 


154  OUR    WOOD    LOT    IN    WINTER. 

ravine,  a  deep  shelter,  where  many  a  fresh  springing  thing  is 
standing,  and  where  we  gain  much  for  our  home  vases.  These 
pines  are  motherly  creatures.  One  can  think  how  it  must  re- 
joice the  heart  of  a  partridge  or  a  rabbit  to  come  from  the  dry, 
whistling  sweep  of  a  deciduous  forest  under  the  home-like 
shadow  of  their  branches.  "  As  for  the  stork,  the  fir  trees 
are  her  house,"  says  the  Hebrew  poet ;  and  our  fir  trees,  this 
winter,  give  shelter  to  much  small  game.  Often,  on  the  light- 
fallen  snow,  I  meet  their  little  footprints.  They  have  a  naive, 
helpless,  innocent  appearance,  these  little  tracks,  that  soft- 
ens my  heart  like  a  child's  footprint.  Not  one  of  them  is  for- 
gotten of  our  Father  ;  and  therefore  I  remember  them  kindly. 
And  now,  with  cold  toes  and  fingers,  and  arms  full  of  leafy 
treasures,  we  plod  our  way  back  to  the  chaise.  A  pleas- 
ant song  is  in  my  ears  from  this  old  wood  lot  —  it  speaks  of 
green  and  cheerful  patience  in  life's  hard  weather.  Not  a 
scowling,  sullen  endurance,  not  a  despairing,  hand-dropping 
resignation,  but  a  heart  cheerfulness  that  holds  on  to  every 
leaf,  and  twig,  and  flower,  and  bravely  smiles  and  keeps 
green  when  frozen  to  the  very  heart,  knowing  that  the  winter 
is  but  for  a  season,  and  that  the  sunshine  and  bird  singings 
shall  return,  and  the  last  year's  dry  flower  stalk  give  place  to 
the  risen,  glorified  flower. 


POEMS. 


THE   CHARMER. 

"  Socrates.  — '  However,  you  and  Simmias  appear  to  me  as  if  you  wished 
to  sift  this  subject  more  thoroughly,  and  to  be  afraid,  like  children,  lest,  on 
the  soul's  departure  from  the  body,  winds  should  blow  it  away.' 
*  *  *  * 

"  Upon  this  Cebes  said,  '  Endeavor  to  teach  us  better,  Socrates.  *  *  * 
Perhaps  there  is  a  childish  spirit  in  our  breast,  that  has  such  a  dread.  Let 
us  endeavor  to  persuade  him  not  to  be  afraid  of  death,  as  of  hobgoblins.' 

"'But  you  must  charm  him  every  day,' said  Socrates,  '  until  you  have 
quieted  his  fears.' 

"  '  But  whence,  O  Socrates,'  he  said,  '  can  we  procure  a  skilful  charmer 
for  such  a  case,  now  you  are  about  to  leave  us.' 

"  •  Greece  is  wide,  Cebes,'  he  replied :  '  and  in  it  surely  there  arc  skilful 
men,  and  there  are  also  many  barbarous  nations,  all  of  which  you  should 
search,  seeking  such  a  charmer,  sparing  neither  money  nor  toil,  as  th< 
nothing  on  which  you  can  more  reasonably  spend  your  money.'  "  —  | 
conversation  of  Socrates   with  his  disciples,  as    nafrated  by  Plato  in   the 
Phcedo.) 

"We  need  that  Charmer,  for  our  hearts  are  sore 
With  longings  for  the  things  thai  may  QOl  be; 

Faint  for  the  friends  thai  shall  return  no  more ; 
Dark  with  distrust,  or  wrung  with  agony. 


456  poems. 

"  "What  is  this  life  ?  and  what  to  us  is  death  ? 

Whence  came  we  ?  whither  go  ?  and  where  are  those 
Who,  in  a  moment  stricken  from  our  side, 

Passed  to  that  land  of  shadow  and  repose  ? 

"And  are  they  all  dust?  and  dust  must  we  become  ? 

Or  are  they  living  in  some  unknown  clime  ? 
Shall  we  regain  them  in  that  far-off  home, 

And  live  anew  beyond  the  waves  of  time  ? 

"  O  man  divine  !  on  thee  our  souls  have  hung ; 

Thou  wert  our  teacher  in  these  questions  high ; 
But,  ah,  this  day  divides  thee  from  our  side, 

And  veils  in  dust  thy  kindly-guiding  eye. 

"  Where  is  that  Charmer  whom  thou  bidst  us  seek  ? 

On  what  far  shores  may  his  sweet  voice  be  heard  ? 
When  shall  these  questions  of  our  yearning  souls 

Be  answered  by  the  bright  Eternal  Word  ?  " 

So  spake  the  youth  of  Athens,  weeping  round, 
When  Socrates  lay  calmly  down  to  die ; 

So  spake  the  sage,  prophetic  of  the  hour 

When  earth's  fair  morning  star  should  rise  on  high. 

They  found  Him  not,  those  youths  of  soul  divine, 
Long  seeking,  wandering,  watching  on  life's  shore  — 

Reasoning,  aspiring,  yearning  for  the  light, 

Death  came  and  found  them  —  doubting  as  before. 


POEMS.  4-*>7 

But  years  passed  on ;  and  lo  !  the  Charmer  came  — 
Pure,  simple,  sweet,  as  comes  the  silver  dew ; 

And  the  world  knew  him  not  —  he  walked  alone, 
Encircled  only  by  his  trusting  few. 

Like  the  Athenian  sage  rejected,  scorned, 

Betrayed,  condemned,  his  day  of  doom  drew  nigh ; 

He  drew  his  faithful  few  more  closely  round, 
And  told  them  that  Ms  hour  was  come  to  die. 

"  Let  not  your  heart  be  troubled,"  then  he  said  ; 

"  My  Father's  house  hath  mansions  large  and  fair ; 
I  go  before  you  to  prepare  your  place ; 

I  will  return  to  take  you  with  me  there." 

And  since  that  hour  the  awful  foe  is  charmed, 

And  life  and  death  are  glorified  and  fair. 
Whither  he  went  we  know  —  the  way  we  know  — 

And  with  firm  step  press  on  to  meet  him  there. 
39 


PILGRIM'S   SONG  IN   THE   DESERT. 

'Tis  morning  now  —  upon  the  eastern  hills 

Once  more  the  sun  lights  up  this  cheerless  scene  ; 

But  0,  no  morning  in  my  Father's  house 

Is  dawning  now,  for  there  no  night  hath  been. 

Ten  thousand  thousand  now,  on  Zion's  hills, 

All  robed  in  white,  with  palmy  crowns,  do  stray, 

While  I,  an  exile,  far  from  fatherland, 

Still  wandering,  faint  along  the  desert  way. 

O  home  !  dear  home  !  my  own,  my  native  home  ! 
O  Father,  friends,  when  shall  I  look  on  you  ? 
"When  shall  these  weary  wanderings  be  o'er, 
And  I  be  gathered  back  to  stray  no  more  ? 

0  thou,  the  brightness  of  whose  gracious  face 
These  weary,  longing  eyes  have  never  seen,  — 
By  whose  dear  thought,  for  whose  beloved  sake, 
My  course,  through  toil  and  tears,  I  daily  take,  — 

1  think  of  thee  when  the  myrrh-dropping  morn 

Steps  forth  upon  the  purple  eastern  steep ; 
I  think  of  thee  in  the  fair  eventide, 

When  the  bright-sandalled  stars  their  watches  keep. 

( 158) 


poems.  459 

And  trembling  hope,  and  fainting,  sorrowing  love, 
On  thy  dear  word  for  comfort  doth  rely ; 

And  clear-eyed  Faith,  with  strong  forereaching  gaze, 
Beholds  thee  here,  unseen,  but  ever  nigh. 

Walking  in  white  with  thee,  she  dimly  sees, 
All  beautiful,  these  lovely  ones  withdrawn, 

With  whom  my  heart  went  upward,  as  they  rose, 
Like  morning  stars,  to  light  a  coming  dawn. 

All  sinless  nowr,  and  crowned,  and  glorified, 

Where'er  thou  movest  move  they  still  with  thee, 

As  erst,  in  sweet  communion  by  thy  side, 
Walked  John  and  Mary  in  old  Galilee. 

But  hush,  my  heart !    "lis  but  a  day  or  two 
Divides  thee  from  that  bright,  immortal  shore. 

Rise  up  !  rise  up !  and  gird  thee  for  the  race  ! 
Fast  fly  the  hours,  and  all  will  soon  be  o'er. 

Thou  hast  the  new  name  written  in  thy  soul  ; 

Thou  hast  the  mystic  stone  he  gives  his  own. 
Thy  soul,  made  one  with  him,  shall  feel  no  more 

That  she  is  walking  ondier  path  alone. 


MARY  AT  THE   CROSS. 


"  Now  there  stood  by  the  cross  of  Jesus  his  mother.'' 

O  wondrous  mother !     Since  the  dawn  of  time 
Was  ever  joy,  was  ever  grief  like  thine  ? 
O,  highly  favored  in  thy  joy's  deep  flow, 
And  favored  e'en  in  this,  thy  bitterest  woe ! 


Poor  was  that  home  in  simple  Nazareth, 

Where  thou,  fair  growing,  like  some  silent  flower, 

Last  of  a  kingly  line,  —  unknown  and  lowly, 
O  desert  lily,  —  passed  thy  childhood's  hour. 

The  world  knew  not  the  tender,  serious  maiden, 
Who,  through  deep  loving  years  so  silent  grew, 

Filled  with  high  thoughts  and  holy  aspirations, 

Which,  save  thy  Father,  God's,  no  eye  might  view. 

And  then  it  came,  that  message  from  the  Highest, 
Such  as  to  woman  ne'er  before  descended ; 

Th'  almighty  shadowing  wings  thy  soul  o'erspread, 
And  with  thy  life  the  Life  of  worlds  was  blended. 

(460) 


POEMS.  K')l 

What  visions,  then,  of  future  glory  filled  thee, 
Mother  of  King  and  kingdom  yet  unknown  — 

Mother,  fulfiller  of  all  prophecy, 

"Which  through  dim  ages  wondering  seers  had  shown  ! 

Well  did  thy  dark  eye  kindle,  thy  deep  soul 

Rise  into  billows,  and  thy  heart  rejoice ; 
Then  woke  the  poet's  fire,  the  prophet's  song 

Tuned  with  strange,  burning  words  thy  timid  voice. 

Then  in  dark  contrast  came  the  lowly  manger, 
The  outcast  shed,  the  tramp  of  brutal  feet ; 

Again,  behold  earth's  learned,  and  her  lowly, 
Sages  and  shepherds,  prostrate  at  thy  feet. 

Then  to  the  temple  bearing,  hark !  again 
What  strange,  conflicting  tones  of  prophecy 

Breathe  o'er  the  Child,  foreshadowing  words  of  joy, 
High  triumph,  and  yet  bitter  agony. 

O,  highly  favored  thou,  in  many  an  hour 

Spent  in  lone  musing  with  thy  wondrous  Son, 

When  thou  didst  gaze  into  that  glorious  eye, 
And  hold  that  mighty  hand  within  thy  own. 

Blessed  through  those  thirty  years,  when  in  thv  dwelling 
He  lived  a  God  disguised,  with  unknown  power, 

And  thou,  his  sole  adorer,  —  his  best  love, — 
Trusting,  revering,  waitedst  for  his  hour. 
39* 


462  poems. 

Blessed  in  that  hour,  when  called  by  opening  heaven 
With  cloud,  and  voice,  and  the  baptizing  flame, 

Up  from  the  Jordan  walked  th'  acknowledged  stranger, 
And  awe-struck  crowds  grew  silent  as  he  came. 

Blessed,  when  full  of  grace,  with  glory  crowned, 
He  from  both  hands  almighty  favors  poured, 

And,  though  he  had  not  where  to  lay  his  head, 
Brought  to  his  feet  alike  the  slave  and  lord. 

Crowds  followed  ;  thousands  shouted,  "  Lo,  our  King ! ': 
Fast  beat  thy  heart ;  now,  now  the  hour  draws  nigh : 

Behold  the  crown  —  the  throne !  the  nations  bend. 
Ah,  no !  fond  mother,  no  !  behold  him  die. 

Now  by  that  cross  thou  tak'st  thy  final  station, 
And  shar'st  the  last  dark  trial  of  thy  Son  ; 

Not  with  weak  tears  or  woman's  lamentation, 
But  with  high,  silent  anguish,  like  his  own. 

Hail,  highly  favored,  even  in  this  deep  passion, 
Hail,  in  this  bitter  anguish  —  thou  art  blest  — 

Blest  in  the  holy  power  with  him  to  suffer 

Those  deep  death  pangs  that  lead  to  higher  rest. 

All  now  is  darkness  ;  and  in  that  deep  stillness 
The  God-man  wrestles  with  that  mighty  woe  ; 

Hark  to  that  cry,  the  rock  of  ages  rending  — 
"  'Tis  finished !  "     Mother,  all  is  glory  now  ! 


poems.  463 

By  sufferings  mighty  as  his  mighty  soul 
Hath  the  Jehovah  risen  —  forever  blest ; 

And  through  all  ages  must  his  heart-beloved 
Through  the  same  baptism  enter  the  same  rest 


CHRISTIAN  PEACE. 


"  Thou  shalt  hide  them  in  the  secret  of  thy  presence  from  the  pride  of 
man ;  thou  shalt  keep  them  secretly  as  in  a  pavilion  from  the  strife  of 
tongues." 

When  winds  are  raging  o'er  the  upper  ocean, 
And  billows  wild  contend  with  angry  roar, 

Tis  said,  far  down  beneath  the  wild  commotion. 
That  peaceful  stillness  reigneth  evermore. 

Far,  far  beneath,  the  noise  of  tempest  dieth, 
And  silver  waves  chime  ever  peacefully, 

And  no  rude  storm,  how  fierce  soe'er  he  flieth, 
Disturbs  the  Sabbath  of  that  deeper  sea. 

So  to  the  heart  that  knows  thy  love,  O  Purest, 

There  is  a  temple.,  sacred  evermore, 
And  all  the  babble  of  life's  angry  voices 

Die  in  hushed  stillness  at  its  peaceful  door. 

Far,  far  away,  the  roar  of  passion  dieth, 

And  loving  thoughts  rise  calm  and  peacefully, 

And  no  rude  storm,  how  fierce  soe'er  he  flieth, 
Disturbs  the  soul  that  dwells,  O  Lord,  in  thee. 

(464) 


poems.  465 

O,  rest  of  rests  !  O,  peace  serene,  eternal ! 

Thou  ever  livest ;  and  thou  cliangest  never  ; 
And  in  the  secret  of  thy  presence  dwelleth 

Fulness  of  joy  —  forever  and  forever. 


ABIDE   IN  ME   AND   I  IN  YOU. 

THE    SOUL'S    ANSWER. 

That  mystic  word  of  thine,  O  sovereign  Lord, 
Is  all  too  pure,  too  high,  too  Jeep  for  me ; 

Weary  of  striving,  and  with  longing  faint, 
I  breathe  it  back  again  in  prayer  to  thee. 

Abide  in  me,  I  pray,  and  I  in  thee ; 

From  this  good  hour,  O,  leave  me  nevermore ; 
Then  shall  the  discord  cease,  the  wound  be  healed, 

The  lifelong  bleeding  of  the  soul  be  o'er. 

Abide  in  me  —  o'ershadow  by  thy  love 

Eacli  half-formed  purpose  and  dark  thought  of  sin  ; 
Quench,  e'er  it  rise,  each  selfish,  low  desire, 

And  keep  my  soul  as  thine,  calm  and  divine. 

As  some  rare  perfume  in  a  vase  of  clay 
Pervades  it  with  a  fragrance  not  its  own, 

So,  when  thou  dwellest  in  a  mortal  soul, 

All  heaven's  own  sweetness  seems  around  it  thrown. 

(466) 


467 


The  soul  alone,  like  a  neglected  harp, 

Grows  out  of  tune,  and  needs  a  hand  divine  ; 

Dwell  thou  within  it,  tune,  and  touch  the  chords, 
Till  every  note  and  string  shall  answer  thine. 

Abide  in  me  ;  there  have  been  moments  pure 
"When  I  have  seen  thy  face  and  felt  thy  power ; 

Then  evil  lost  its  grasp,  and  passion,  hushed, 
Owned  the  divine  enchantment  of  the  hour. 

These  were  but  seasons  beautiful  and  rare  ; 

"  Abide  in  me,"  —  and  they  shall  ever  be  : 
Fulfil  at  once  thy  precept  and  my  prayer  — 

Come  and  abide  in  me,  and  I  in  thee. 


WHEN   I   AWAKE    I  AM   STILL  WITH   THEE. 

Still,  still  with  thee,  when  purple  morning  breaketh, 
When  the  bird  waketh  and  the  shadows  flee  ; 

Fairer  than  morning,  lovelier  than  the  daylight, 
Dawns  the  sweet  consciousness,  lam  with  thee  I 

Alone  with  thee,  amid  the  mystic  shadows, 
The  solemn  hush  of  nature  newly  born  ; 

Alone  with  thee  in  breathless  adoration, 

In  the  calm  dew  and  freshness  of  the  morn. 

As  in  the  dawning  o'er  the  waveless  ocean 
The  image  of  the  morning  star  doth  rest, 

So  in  this  stillness  thou  beholdest  only 
Thine  image  in  the  waters  of  my  breast. 

Still,  still  with  thee !  as  to  each  new-born  morning 
A  fresh  and  solemn  splendor  still  is  given, 

So  doth  this  blessed  consciousness,  awaking, 

Breathe,  each  day,  nearness  unto  thee  and  heaven. 

When  sinks  the  soul,  subdued  by  toil,  to  slumber, 
Its  closing  eye  looks  up  to  thee  in  prayer, 

(468) 


poems.  469 

Sweet  the  repose  beneath  thy  wings  o'ershading, 
But  sweeter  still  to  wake  and  find  thee  there. 

So  shall  it  be  at  last,  in  that  bright  morning 
When  the  soul  waketh  and  life's  shadows  flee  ; 

0,  in  that  hour,  fairer  than  daylight  dawning, 
Shall  rise  the  glorious  thought,  I  am  with  thee! 


CHRIST'S   VOICE   IN   THE  SOUL. 

"  Come  ye  yourselves  into  a  desert  place  and  rest  a  while  ;  for  there  were 
many  coming  and  going,  so  that  they  had  no  time  so  much  as  to  eat." 

'Mid  the  mad  whirl  of  life,  its  dim  confusion, 

Its  jarring  discords  and  poor  vanity, 
Breathing  like  music  over  troubled  waters, 

What  gentle  voice,  O  Christian,  speaks  to  thee  ? 

It  is  a  stranger  —  not  of  earth  or  earthly  ; 

By  the  serene,  deep  fulness  of  that  eye,  — 
By  the  calm,  pitying  smile,  the  gesture  lowly,  — 

It  is  thy  Savior  as  he  passeth  by. 

"  Come,  come,"  he  saith,  "  into  a  desert  place, 
Thou  who  art  weary  of  life's  lower  sphere  ; 

Leave  its  low  strifes,  forget  its  babbling  noise  ; 

Come  thou  with  me  —  all  shall  be  bright  and  clear. 

"  Art  thou  bewildered  by  contesting  voices, 
Sick  to  thy  soul  of  party  noise  and  strife  ? 

Come,  leave  it  all,  and  seek  that  solitude 
Where  thou  shalt  learn  of  me  a  purer  life. 

(470) 


POEMS.  171 

"  When  far  behind  the  world's  great  tumult  dietli, 
Thou  shalt  look  back  and  wonder  at  its  roar ; 

But  its  far  voice  shall  seem  to  thee  a  dream, 
Its  power  to  vex  thy  holier  life  be  o'er. 

"  There  shalt  thou  learn  the  secret  of  a  power, 
Mine  to  bestow,  which  heals  the  ills  of  living  ; 

To  overcome  by  love,  to  live  by  prayer, 

To  conquer  man's  worst  evils  by  forgiving." 


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